she couldn't sleep.

here meant family, and here meant — (that's right!, swallow it!, choke it down!,) home. damask was canis, born and raised. this place had it all: stone flooring in rustic neutrals ... popcorn ceiling, nice and low, no excess clearance ... and best of all, only the finest natural decor, every piece one-of-a-kind with its own heart, soul, and history. looking back, it'd been ridiculous to set herself up in orion to begin with. her overlook, the wind chimes she'd made, all those glittering stars overhead ... ah, who needed 'em? never mind that she couldn't seem to relax in this room — that every time she tried, it put her to a choice between relapse or insomnia. not tonight. no running back to orion this time. to that end, damask had (re-)employed several techniques. she was two hours in at this point, and her current strategy involved a sloping floor and a little wicker ball, woven out of twigs for this specific purpose. slightly worn-and-torn, at this point; she was on her fifth one.

a few paces left, a few paces right, and she gave the ball a push with her foot. it rolled a ways up the incline, then tumbled back down. that's number ninety-eight. don't you have anything better to do with yourself? anything at all? not without admitting defeat, she didn't. pace. pace. kick. ninety-nine. you ready to give up yet? pace, pace, kick. frustration simmered low in her stomach. the reps were growing more and more violent. one-zero-zero, kid. pacepaceKICK — ... plink! ah. damask had hit it just a little too hard, there. into-the-pool-on-the-opposite-side-of-the-slope hard. good job! she skirted around the incline and scanned the water for her lost plaything. lo and behold, it was bobbing happily at the surface, unperturbed. all right, quick fix, nothing to it. she just had to lean in, grab the ball, try not to look down — ... too late. not loving what you see?

a faraway chatter drifted over the pool, consisting of a brittle kind of clinking along with a — a voice? someone whispering, idly excited. ... huh? she took up the ball, slashed away the face in the shallows, and waded quietly ahead. the water licked and clung to her trousers. a few moments later, she stepped onto shore, feathers slick around her heels. here stood a tall outcropping, blocking out whatever awaited her. but the sound was growing louder, closer: bones, damask realized, with some strange sort of attendant. heh. like the living and the dead, all wrapped up in unholy matrimony. you realize this'll probably involve talking to a stranger, right? and what happened to all that about shuteye, hm? you sure you don't wanna walk away?

the accipiter pressed on, stiffer by the second. the wicker ball trembled in her teeth. she drew to a halt ... edged her way around, almost out of cover now ... and peered around the corner.

oh, man. all right, okay, that's ... that's a lot of bones. all sorts, shapes, and sizes, some cracked and yellowed, others well-preserved. what exactly are we looking at, here — ? see, it wasn't so much the variety that struck her as the ... configuration. they connected to form a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, interlocking, interlacing. not exactly a fortress, more of a — fort? a work in progress, homemade, built afresh with love in every fit. sorta impressive, actually. this feeling lasted for about a second and a half. then, a particular specimen captured her attention, its shape unmistakable: an avian skull; and for an instant — just an instant, a fleeting glitch in her perception — its solemn visage became her grandfather's.

all the heat flushed from her face. what's the matter? it's only dead, you know. she ushered her gaze away, traced circles into the ground with her foot. bones didn't — scare her, exactly. yes, she avoided the fortresses, and yes, she gave even the smallest ribs and carpals a wide berth, and yes, she still sometimes saw them in her sleep ... but so long as they kept their distance, damask could tolerate them. the threat of contact was what made her heart race — along with the memories the ones with faces evoked.

so in short: yeah, you're scared of 'em. got a bona-fide phobia of what they represent, and half of one for the things by themselves. we're talking bones, here — you know, fifty percent of your family's name ... the epithet of the room that's supposed to be your beloved domain ... half the title of your delusional dream job. yeah, some ████ you'd make.

she flinched, grimaced, cringed so hard it actually hurt — and no one's eyes were on to see it, (lucky you,) but (don't forget!) she wasn't alone. the whispers had grown faintly intelligible with proximity, a prattling buzz of fragments and chuckles; and here, of course, was the architect themself, visible only in darting spots and slivers behind their handiwork. the bones continued to clink as adjustments were made. whoever this mysterious creature was, they were in the zone, completely oblivious to damask's presence (and likely to anything else outside a fort-wide radius).

several moments of hesitation later, the bird of prey broke cover at last, setting her wicker ball down on a shelf in the rock; it sat patiently and placidly, out of focus behind its maker. something between fear and fascination kept her rooted to the spot. she took in a rousing breath, arranging her face into cool composure. the project was really sort of cool, wasn't it? art and science — two of her most favorite things! — rolled into one. all she had to do was ... skim over the skulls, and she'd be fine. she appraised the structure, top-to-bottom, side-to-side. finally: "this is very clever." damask sidled a little closer, gesturing via muzzle and wing as she spoke — quietly, but more and more quickly. "have you considered shifting that, ah, shoulderblade there? the angle's unstable. and this here, the ... spine, it's recent. the vertebrae will separate over time. a femur or any other long bone should work just as well, as long as it's roughly the same size."

she craned her head, seeking out a face behind the bones. uncertainty flickered over her features. what are you doing? investigating? socializing? making an effort? more like giving yourself something to chew on, but whatever you want to call it, kid.

a figure passed into view, and damask's attention sharpened at once, eager for something to point at — something other than the marvel of gothic architecture standing next to them. the stranger was distinctly feline and distinctly ... familiar? who's this remind you of? ... let's see: sturdy build, well-muscled, low to the ground; thick limbs, a whip for a tail; dark rosettes on tawny fur ... why, yes! drumroll, please: it's your old-pal-uncle-definitely-not-your-dad eythan! give or take a few things. a lot of 'em, actually. not everyone has to be like someone else, you know. she shifted from side to side, ruffling and smoothing her plumage in turn. uncanny similarities aside, this individual was a veritable study in psychological flow. damask could only watch as they sprang into action — every idea carried out to a tee, and not so much as a double-take in her direction. man, oh, man. whatever you just got yourself into, it's gonna be pure gold.

at long last, the cat broke away from their work, and there were their eyes — almost precisely level with damask's, bright and blue as the core's crystal river. she regarded them evenly, if a little roundly, brows raised and furrowed. you gonna try and smile back? no? figures. it was all she could do to hold steady, truly taken aback as she was. this kind of energy — borderline manic, yet also magnetic ... it had a way of making her nervous. that feeling only intensified as they (she? she) finally spoke, thanking damask once, twice, three times. the bird of prey nodded along in modest acknowledgment, ears flicking back. a name, now: kaimana. she echoed it voicelessly down at the floor, testing the shape of it on her tongue. it felt sort of wavy, fluid — unique. a momentary pause, and then kaimana continued. "you are both very helpful and very much awake at a strange time. is there a name that i may call you by?"

the accipiter lifted her gaze back up into contact. "yes," she said, as if the answer could've been anything but. "it's damask." ... tiny, tiny beat ... "damask vita." she inhaled, sifting her way through kaimana's choice of words — smooth, casual, but with the slightest nudge to them, as in ... hey, you just came up to me in the dead of night and started schooling me on my own architectural masterpiece. that's a little weird. care to elaborate? oh, damn it, that was weird. suddenly, she was very aware of the shadows around them, orbs at half power. ahh, one thing at a time ...

"i should explain. there's a spell i know, looks for heartbeats, senses life. the finer points of a pulse — vessels, organs, bones — indicate who or what you're looking at. you come to develop a certain eye for anatomy." and maybe, just maybe ... kaimana had an eye for it too ... ? nope! no tangents. there, that's it, that's all you have to say. anything else, you keep it to yourself; nobody wants to hear you talk about how pretty blood is. she cleared her throat and glanced away, backtracking to kaimana's first observation. had to think fast here, mile a minute. couldn't leave space for curiosity.

so you've got two options right now. option number one: tell her you hate this place and you can't sleep because of it; tell her you're a sad sack who's never gonna get what she wants; tell her you were taking it out on a toy made of twigs. option number two: lie.

"i was just finishing something," damask said — and here, she refocused, tossing her muzzle over her shoulder. note the wicker ball once again, resting peaceably on its shelf. "it's for a few new additions to the family — not mine, to clarify." ooh. backpedaled real quick, there. "just trying to help however i can. sometimes, that means working late."

finally, her gaze shifted over to the bones, if only for an indicative look. questions in disguise, huh? "i gather you're building this with a purpose in mind." two could play at that game. back to kaimana, with a sideways tweak of her head.

holy — ... is she okay? the bird of prey's jawline twisted a little further to the right, as if to resist a wave of heat. naturally, kaimana was not less than okay — she was so far past that, it almost looped back around into warranting concern. energy all but shimmered around her, sparks flying off in twitchy stops and starts. her eyes had swollen into full blue moons, fangs gleaming like swords. damask wasn't sure whether to be intimidated or impressed, and not just by the teeth. smiles for miles. oh, you wish you felt so alive. that attentive gaze was a spotlight, and she wanted, needed it off. ergo, the fort. after all that work, kaimana had to jump at the chance to get into it, right? bzzt! wrong!

instead: "may i see your creation?" her — ... her creation? so that was what all the peeking had been about; kaimana couldn't actually see it. which meant that ... she didn't know what it was, which then meant that ... she was vastly overestimating its caliber, its craftsmanship, its — everything. sure did walk right into that one, hm? nicely done. kaimana hit rewind, enthused some more: "aha, i'm sorry ... you've made me very happy!" hah, what? that some kind of joke? then: "i'm about to start my own family!"

... and everything made sense. unsettling how he kept coming up, but — in the weeks leading up to avi, eythan had looked something like this, fussing and prancing, frenetic, excited. damask reacted now with the same expression she'd worn then: a soft (weak) smile, eyelids at half-mast. that's great, it said, with all the myriad implications those two words might've carried out loud. of course kaimana was looking for toys, and of course she had to run into damask, who happened to be in possession of such an item at this very moment. and don't forget, it's one of the worst you've ever made. why not! why not. her stomach churned with dismay, frustration, exhaustion, but ... she let go of her chin, and with it her resistance. the nod was slight, cautious. "all right."

mustering herself, the accipiter stepped back and swept around with a flourish. kaimana, ball; ball, kaimana. go on, get to know each other. trouble was ... charming or not, the thing really, truly wasn't much, and she knew that for a fact. all told, it was only about the size of a fist; the weave was tight, but sparse, subtly frayed after a few hours' use. there was one piece of the lie — the kids got carvings, not shoddy little kickballs. damask drew herself upright, buttoning up, all business and stiffness. her eyes rested on the wicker ball, avoiding the dejected reaction sure to come. it rolled an inch forward, rolled an inch back, stirred into motion by the breeze. flimsy piece of garbage. okay. best to get this over with. she outstretched a broad, black-and-white wing, presenting three dextrous claws by way of explanation.

"it's very simple: just a few flexible twigs, soaked and coiled, woven together. things like this, they're made to be broken." a pang of feeling, unexpected. she almost winced — didn't. "you're welcome to it, but i can do better."

wow, that really was an actual offer you just made.

"hey ... congratulations, yeah? one of ours happened that way. happiest kid you'll ever meet." happiest dad, too. don't mention it. another gesture towards the fort, to specify. "you could do something like this for yours, you know. it's not just toys. they thrive on all different sights to see, textures to feel, places to explore and experience — as much of the world as you can give them, i think, while they're still ..." what? what? hello? tap the brakes! "... small." sorta like your voice just now. could we get a disclaimer in here, please? and could you quit embarrassing yourself, get the subject off your own little theories? "it's not my area; i apologize. you'll be a good parent, kaimana."

the pause that ensued was brief, natural, wholly unremarkable. this was definitely not how it felt. excuse expired. you gotta be very brave, now: you gotta ... make eye contact. damask risked a glimpse in her periphery, then eased her way back to kaimana's face. (miraculously,) the expression she found wasn't one of abject disappointment; rather, the cat had softened while damask wasn't looking. she seemed calmer, sort of ... pensive — which was almost worse than the expected alternative. now, what might be going on in there? could be she's thinking it over, taking you serious, accepting your uneducated guesses. could be she's thinking about the fact that some kid (that's you) just gave her parenting advice. or, could be ... she's thinking about her future with her child, 'cause guess what? it's not always about you.

but the way kaimana was talking, you could've been forgiven for supposing it was.

damask had opened a conversational door, even held it for her; but instead, the cat thanked her again, reassured her, even ... (is that supposed to be funny — ?) asked if she was charging for this? ah, yes, it is; she's laughing. now, how do we react to jokes again? she resurrected that slender smile, tipping her head left and right, playing along: oh, no, i couldn't possibly. and there was a hint of humble embarrassment in the gesture, yes; but it couldn't compare to the sheer, visceral discomfort mounting underneath, climbing and climbing as kaimana continued. these honeyed words of hers, this — praise? flattery? admiration? no way it's real.

there was something about this cat. crafty, slippery, hard to get ahold of. it's like she can hear us. the way she kept invoking her name, one-two-three-four times, every one digging under her skin — the way she took bits and pieces, the disclaimer, the apology, and dissected them on the spot — just little blips ... charming and intricate, paired with the very not-charming, not-intricate term twig ball; "i should've addressed it earlier," as if to highlight that she hadn't been given a chance to; the your (damask's) and the you (damask) on something that was emphatically not damask's ... it was an interrogation, testing her defenses, probing for weakness. cycles ago, she might've started to cave: shuffled her feet and averted her eyes, agonizing over the compliments, whether to trust them. this damask, right here, right now? no question. this one was poise incarnate, upright posture, unaffected expression, all dressed up in a tailored tuxedo — impeccably fitted, not a frayed thread or an undone button to be found. tradeoff was, she couldn't quite breathe in it.

a paw drifted up to the dangling row of pink and blue at kaimana's chin. the accipiter's eyes flicked down for a second to observe, then retook their hold on their opponents. it was the first and only time they'd broken, otherwise unblinking, unwavering. "what would i ask for? hm ..." a fractional avian cock of the head; she could've rattled off a list of ideas, but the cat wasn't finished. "... ooh, and magic!" another tilt in the opposite direction; magic was a favorite subject of hers, safe, comfortable — but the cat wasn't finished. "you were a child once, right?" she righted herself with a near-audible snap; this wasn't just a question so rhetorical it was ridiculous, it was a line whose endpoint she did not want to see — but the cat still wasn't finished.

"did you have toys, damask? did you have a favorite? was it also made of soaked twigs?"

pop, pop, pop. a trio of bullets, right between the eyes. now she was finished.

damask didn't move an inch. fiery heat rose into her face, a rush of nausea, chest like a cage; and it was all invisible, very carefully so, but that hiding came at the expense of an outlet. enter shock, take a left at guilt, ride the elevator straight up to panic. how had she — damask hadn't — she could've sworn she'd been good — clearly YOU WEREN'T. this was a screw-up, massive massive mistake — even flipping like mad through the pages of every word, every gesture of this encounter, she couldn't figure out where on earth she'd gone wrong, must've let something slip in her body language without knowing — shouldn't've lied (except that you had to) shouldn't've mentioned the ball (but it was right there behind you) shouldn't've come up to a stranger in the first place (well yes told you as much) shouldn't've made something just to destroy it (yeah that's it) shouldn't've let herself sink so low that she needed something to destroy (now we're getting somewhere) shouldn't've told auré shouldn't've told auré shouldn't've told auré (you're not a ████ not a ████ never gonna be a —————

control. composure. face like one of the birds that she hunted, pinned in her talons, not so much as a twitch.

"i was more the exploring type," damask said, and yes, it was quiet, yes, it was stiff, nothing moving except for her lips — but no, she didn't stutter, and no, she didn't miss a beat, deliberately replicating that first unremarkable pause. having disclosed this lone, six-word scrap of information, she cut the standard interval in half and brought it back to the concrete and impersonal, leaving no space for cross-examination.

"but some are all about the rough and tumble — satisfies their instincts, offers a release when they need it." take another look at that little piece of trash you made. oh, wouldn't you love to kill it right now? bite down and rip it apart until there's nothing left? taste blood on your tongue, spend the next hour picking out all the splinters? "growing up comes with a lot of energy and a lot of emotion. better to let them take it out on something disposable, right?" like this ball, for instance! that's the implication. but what about those poor lost souls at the meet, the big tourists, squirming because of you? for a minute, just one delicious minute, didn't that feel so good? are you talking about kids, or are you talking about you?

okay, split-second! your time is up. fantasy over; eyes on the cat. and fight back, will you?

"i get the impression you were different — partial to more ... cerebral activities. not so much toys as games, the kind that made you think. you liked making things, putting them together, or maybe — collecting them?" the architecture alone spoke to that. an appraising look, and then, knowingly: "if i had to guess." another little pause, as if she needed a moment to think about it. (she didn't.) "the magic you've given might impart similar tastes. bearing that in mind: what do you think you would've liked best? try me."

an emotionally immaculate performance, damask was certain of it. maybe too spotless, and that said something in itself; but somehow, somehow she'd given herself away last time, and she couldn't allow that to happen again.