lostcarnival | ⇨ The Tourist Trap: PROLOGUE

It isn't a wholly unusual sight to see several birds diving after a crow in any city. Smaller birds band together to drive the bigger one off, a natural course of defense, just something that happens. What is a little more unusual, however, are other crows doing the exact same thing, but that's what's happening across the early morning sky over Waterfront Park. Three smaller crows harass a much larger one and size does little to help against the odds.

Wheeling through the air, dropping suddenly, leveling out again, the larger crow does everything it can to try and put distance between itself and the trio hot on its tail, but it's all for nothing. The chase ends with one latching onto a wing and throwing itself into a sudden, earthward spin, yanking the larger one off balance with a shrill cry. Wild, desperate flailing manages to shake the smaller one off, but it's only by sheer luck that it careens straight into the bushes rather than crushing itself against the sidewalk.

For Lambert, if he hadn't been paying attention before, well, he'll want to pay attention now, since the blur of dark feathers shoots straight across his path and into the shrubbery lining the jogging path along the riverside. The remaining crows, still up in the air, begin to circle, as if waiting to see whether the one that's just crashed is going to rise again or not...

Lambert wouldn't consider himself a morning person by nature, but the quiet isolation -- the few minutes he has solely to himself and nobody else -- are nice. It gives him the chance spend some time in his own head thinking of nothing at all but the pound of his feet on the pavement, the quiet ache in his muscles. Which of course means it gets interrupted by squabbling birds crossing his path, something that draws him up short mid-jog.

These days, Lambert's been doing his best to ignore birds and anything small and rodent-like that flies (this has recently made his home life immensely difficult, since he can't even talk about it). It's not like he's about to pounce, or even has particularly cat-like instincts anymore, but there's a memory of feathers and blood in his mouth that should be unpleasantly visceral, but isn't, and he knows there's already enough wrong with him without adding that to the mix. As he glances between the dark shapes circling above and the broken twigs and fluttering leaves of the bushes at the side of the path, an uneasy feeling churns in his gut, intensifying the longer he hesitates.

With an internal groan, Lambert turns towards the bushes to investigate where the crash-landing bird went, hoping like hell this isn't a bad idea (and already suspecting that it is).

Edited (i guess this is a thing now) 2017-05-26 17:39 (UTC)

Of course it's a bad idea, Lambert. You're unknowingly trapped in an urban fantasy YA novel about to rescue a crow, what else can you expect?

In retrospect, it'll no doubt be just as annoying as it is right now, but that's then, not now. Right now the bushes the bird crashed into rustle at his approach, a low, angry, drawn out caw coming from it when he gets close enough. But there's no attempt to get the hell out of dodge, just a little more rustling and a wary look from a beady black eye once Lambert is actually at the bush and looking into it. Closer inspection will make it apparent enough that one of the crow's wings is overextended and caught on the branches, so the lack of escape may be more due to inability than anything else.

While that one isn't going anywhere, the other three? That's a different story. They stop circling once they notice someone else down there and swoop low, landing on nearby perches instead: a tree, the top of a lamppost, high up places where they can watch from, eerily silent now.

Edited 2017-05-26 18:19 (UTC)

At the back of his mind, Lambert had been hoping -- without any real belief that it would actually happen -- that he could take a look, figure out there wasn't anything wrong with the bird, and go on his merry way. Nothing that needs intervention, just checking that it's survived the fall, and that would be the end of that.

Of course, nothing is that simple. He ignores the stinkeye the bird is giving him and looks it over instead, frown deepening when he sees the angle its wing is splayed at, the way it's obviously stuck. He's no expert, but he's pretty sure if he turns and walks away now, it's not getting out of there on his own. For the moment, his attention's only focused on the crow stuck in the bush, trying to figure out the best way to extract it without poking an eye out. He's gotten his sisters out of scrapes like this before, but at least they're sentient and can understand words like hold still and I'm not going to hurt you.

First things first: he has no intention of getting pecked or scratched if it's feeling feisty. He slides his hoodie off, exposing arms still scabbed with fine scratches, and holds it up with both hands, spreading it out as he tries to shoulder his way deeper into the bush, holding the branches and twigs away from springing back.

"Easy," he murmurs, less for the bird's benefit than his own, because this? This feels pretty stupid. The sense of dread abates when he moves the hoodie closer, though, so that's something. "Just gonna get you out of here..." And at that point he'll attempt to use the cloth to bundle the bird up, an endeavor complicated by trying not to jostle that wing while he's at it.

Strangely enough, the crow doesn't put up a fuss or struggle when Lambert pushes branches aside and moves to wrap the hoodie around it. It makes it easier, that's for sure, and even if the bird had been giving him the evil eye before, it doesn't seem he'll have to be worried about scratches or pecking.

Not from this one, in any case. Almost as soon as he has the injured crow bundled up, there's a flurry of flapping sounds from above, growing louder at an alarming rate.

It's the only warning Lambert will get before one of the smaller crows launches itself talons first at his head, soon to be followed by a second one which comes in louder than the first, screeching to high heaven as if to make up for the lack of fuss from the one they put into the bushes.

The beat of feathers against air isn't much of a warning, but it's enough for Lambert to instinctively raise an arm to shield his face, shouting in surprise and alarm as he feels talons ripping open skin, shortly followed by another as feathery bodies dive at him.

"What the fuck?" Lambert swings his arm out blindly, hoping the motion is sharp and sudden enough to catch them off guard as he attempts to smack them away. He doesn't bother being gentle about it, either -- the last thing on his mind is being considerate towards birds who apparently have no hesitation attacking people. Instinctively, he hunches over the bundle he's made of his hoodie and cradles it closer to his chest. After all that trouble getting it out, like hell he's dropping it now.

Edited 2017-05-28 03:02 (UTC)

He misses one but whacks another with his arm. The third overshoots and only goes dangerously past one side of his head but doesn't connect. The one who took the hit recovers and all three fly up higher again, raising a din over it like Lambert's managed to offend them all. During all this, the crow bundled up in the hoodie remains silent, still. Chances are it can't even see that well out and about, depending on how Lambert has it wrapped up, but even so...

Maybe it's just hoping the trio going after Lambert will forget about it altogether, assuming birds can even think on a level like that.

With the hoodie tucked over and around the bird, it's unlikely the crow can see much of anything at all, world restricted to the pinpricks of light that shine through the cloth, the distant sound of the other crows' fury, and the faint smell of deodorant.

While he has no idea if this is within the realm of normal bird behavior -- and he doesn't want to end up like the poor fucks from Seattle who can't go outside without being yelled at by crows constantly -- or just more plain Portland craziness at work, Lambert isn't interested in seeing if the crows intend to regroup and attack again. As soon as they peel away, yammering at him, he's just going to go, trying to jostle the bird in his arms as little as physically possible as he makes a break for it and jogs back towards the park entrance.

Lambert jogs off and, unfortunately, the three crows follow, screeching and scolding the whole way, making one big din up in the air just behind him as he makes his run for it. They'll stop when he hits the park's entrance, though, but only with the racket they're raising. They aren't about to let the injured crow get away that easily, again finding perches to land on and wait and watch.

Once they see where Lambert's heading, they'll move again, following more quietly but also obviously enough if he ever bothers to look up and make note of it. Normal behavior or not, it looks like Mr. Hero just picked up three feathery stalkers.

Oh yeah, Lambert's not missing that they're following, and he's pretty sure now that whatever he's holding, it's definitely not normal. It's easy to dismiss the urge to want to shake them off as irrational, but if there is something weird going on here, he doesn't want them knowing where he and his sisters live, damn it.

But what choice does he have, really? It's too bad that Portland doesn't have the same transportation system Seattle does, tunnels and convenient buildings to duck into, but it's too early for tourists and the doors of the buildings around are shut tight. So for now, he'll go for the only alternative to home he can think of: hop on a bus, plopping the bundle of bird gingerly on his lap and pulling out his phone so he can start searching for the nearest wildlife rescue's number.

"... Hey, uh. I'm a graduate student with the university, and I just wanted to report finding an injured crow? I didn't get a good look, but something's wrong with its wing--" He pauses, frowning as he listens to whoever is on the other end of the line. "Is it distressed? I mean, it crash-landed into a bush, I'd say that's pretty distressing." The sarcasm isn't appreciated, it's clear, but he sighs and flips the cloth away from the bird anyway, just to check how distressed it is. It had seemed pretty calm earlier, after all.

Edited ( ) 2017-05-29 20:54 (UTC)

And still is, for that matter. Cloth flipped up away from its head, the bird just looks up and stares right back at Lambert for a moment. Beady little eye flits from the human to the phone after that, followed by a quiet rrr sound. Not a caw, but close and a lot quieter than one would expect. Besides that, it doesn't do much else, so yeah, calm is a good way to describe it right now.

If only the crow was frightened. Then Lambert could tell himself everything is normal. He sighs, leaning his head back against the glass and closing his eyes as he listens to the woman on the other end rattle off a list of dos and don'ts that makes Lambert's ears ring.

"Of course I'm not interested in keeping it, why do you think I'm calling?" His arm aches where the talons dug into him and he reaches up absently to touch at a lightly scabbed set of scratches. "I'm just trying to find out where to drop it off near the university."

Okay, there we go. The second Lambert mentions dropping it off somewhere, that's when the crow starts raising bloody hell. Before he can even finish the sentence, it launches into the same kind of loud, angry cawing, making those scolding sounds common to corvids, as though suddenly pissed off by something.

Are you fucking kidding him? Now is the time it chooses to make a fuss? Lambert tries to raise his voice over the sound of the crow pitching a fit, trying to ignore the other bus riders (luckily, there aren't many) staring at him, but even in Portland an animal making a ruckus is going to cause a fuss. Despite Lambert's attempts to protest while keeping the woman on the line and hold on to the crow at the same time, they get kicked off the bus, and it's only when he looks around that he realizes they're near the campus, automatic instinct leading him to take the same route he normally does for work. By then, the woman from the center's hung up on him believing he's a prank caller.

"You aren't making it easy to help you, you know," he tells the crow sourly, tucking the phone into his back pocket and scanning the sky.

As soon as they're off the bus and he's put the phone away? Right back to being a good crow, nice and quiet again after a quiet crrk sound that couldn't possibly be laughter. Above them, there's no sign of the three other crows. A few other birds here and there, sure, but mostly pigeons and those are far more likely to expect Lambert to feed them than they are to attack him outright.

Lambert has the lingering suspicion he's being laughed at by a bird, but as he can't actually speak bird? He's just going to have to ignore it. There's a suspicion that it's either a werecrow (do such things exist?) or someone cursed into being one, but there's no way to know for sure until he looks it up later. For now, he'll do the only thing that seems sensible: head into the library and sort out what he immediately can.

Luckily for him, he keeps his keys to the staff room next to his house keys, and there isn't really anyone else around when he slips inside, still cradling the bird close, though he'll set him on one of the tables inside while he goes rummaging for a first aid kit and searches for variations on "diagnosing bird injury" on his phone. As soon as he finds a likely-looking reference, he heads back over, putting phone and first aid kit on the table while he ... actually looks at the bird over properly for the first time.

"I need to pick you up to check for injuries," he says out loud, instantly feeling like an idiot, but pushing through anyway. "Don't give me a hard time, all right? I'm trying not to fuck you up." He reaches out to hold the bird, watching it warily for any signs of impending violence.

Once set down, well, the crow isn't much inclined to get up and wander. It stays put, hunkered down in the hoodie wrapped around it until Lambert comes back from his rummaging to take a closer look. It eyes him and clacks its beak, head tilting one way, then the other, but there are no sudden movements, no attempts to strike at the reaching hand.

See? No trouble at all, now that Lambert isn't trying to pawn it off on some random wildlife rescue.

Yeah, well, he'd buy the innocent act if it hadn't already freaked out so suddenly earlier. He picks the bird up -- if nothing else, he's experienced cradling animals of roughly this size carefully, though he never thought he'd be using that experience for this of all things -- and turns the crow in his hands with a surprisingly professional care. The lacerations are obvious (he has some of his own to treat later) but that dangling wing is the biggest obvious problem.

He explores the wing with his fingers, moving gently along the muscles to feel for breaks in delicate bone and determine the extent of the injury, seeing how much the crow will tolerate it being manipulated. It's a break of some kind, and the best he can do is feel that the bones are aligned properly, then use non-sticky tape and bandages to fashion something that will keep it immobilized against the bird's side. He's not sure he's done it right, but it looks like it does in the pictures, so that will have to be good enough.

"Hope you didn't have somewhere else to be," he murmurs when he's finished, pushing his glasses up and moving to the sink to wash his hands -- was he supposed to do that first? Too late now -- so he can clean out his own scratches and dab antiseptic on their wounds.

Yeah, because a bird is going to have such a busy schedule to keep. Admittedly, Childermass actually did have to be somewhere, but it's hardly his fault he got attacked and he doesn't exactly have any way of telling Lambert all that. As long as the wing is broken, transforming back isn't going to happen.

As it is, actually handling the crow and figuring out how to fix up the wing meets no resistance. He holds still when he has to, offers up the damaged wing without a fight. Overall, he has to wonder if this guy already realizes there's something weird going on here, but again, it's not really his problem.

So long as he doesn't try to dump him into an animal rehabilitation center again...

That, he won't stand for. This? He'll live.

So in reply to Lambert's murmuring, he just croaks, as crows oft do.

With the bird's injury dealt with, Lambert checks his watch -- it's just about the time of day when he can expect some of the other library workers to start coming in, so he needs to decide what to do next, if he doesn't want to have to any awkward questions and deal with more gossip than he already has to. Besides, he isn't even supposed to be in today.

"I know you can understand me." No shit. Whether the not talking is a choice or it physically can't, well, that's a different matter. If he's cursed into this form, like Lambert's guessing, he won't be able to and he'll barely be able to think around the animal instincts; if it's like his sisters but only feigning being a dumb animal, well ... it has no real reason to reveal itself to Lambert either, or believe he's someone to be trusted.

Lambert runs a hand through his hair, exhales. His life is a joke. "Are those birds going to keep going after you?"

A good question, but one that just gets another croak out of the crow and then a long, long, long stare. The bird can't talk, Lambert. They've already established this fact, so now all he can do is sit there and expectantly wait for Lambert to either give up or figure out a system for communication.

Though that he seriously went the 'you can understand me' route is... interesting. Was his unexpected hero something other than just a normal human? The crow squints some as he stares, trying to see through or pick up on any magic that might linger around the man. Another changeling? Something else?

There aren't really any words for how much Lambert wants a drink right now, and it's barely, what, eight in the morning. The crow's scrutiny, unfortunately, won't get him any insights: Lambert's about as non-magical as a human can be.

After a moment, he sighs, closing his hands into fists and resting them on the tabletop, close enough for the crow to reach both with minimal turning of its head. "Are they going to keep looking for you. Tap yes," he raises his right fist, then sets it back down on the table. "Or no." And repeats the motion, this time with his left.

The crow tilts his head as if actually taking the time to consider his answer. He is, mostly. Typically his sisters would leave him be after a failed attempt, but this time they know he's injured. This time he's still fairly sure they followed the bus, too. It wouldn't have been difficult to do. What he doesn't know is what Lambert will do if he taps "no". Leave him outside to fend for himself? Seems likely, but—

Of course he taps the right fist, of course the answer is a "yes". Or he kind of taps it, but he's tired and it ends up being more like resting his beak and therefore head on the top of the right fist, beady little eyes lidding partway. It's not entirely an act to garner pity, but if it'll help, hey.

Given the university's really only twenty minutes from waterfront at best, yeah, it's not all that hard to imagine they managed to follow Lambert. His frown deepens at the affirmative answer, deepens more when the bird rests its head on his knuckles, scowling in a way that twists up the scar over his eye in an unpleasant way.

"You're not nearly cute enough for that to work," he tells the crow. It's tired -- and who wouldn't be, Lambert's tired, too -- and that pathetic staring shouldn't be a factor in this decision, damn it.

And yet.

He resists the urge to drag his hand over his face again, but only just. Instead, he pulls away from the table and the crow to put the first aid kit back and get one of the lockers open, pulling out a black gym bag. Most of the contents -- tape for his hands, a couple of extra shirts and a water bottle -- get dumped back into the locker. He leaves the towel inside, though, and walks back to the table, fiddling with his phone another moment, before slipping it back into his pocket. If he second guesses himself now, they could be here all day.

"You owe me for this," he mutters, looking the crow in the eyes as he lifts him again, into the nest of towel he's made of the bag.

Unfortunately, he does, more seriously than Lambert even knows. He'll never be able to say 'thank you', but this is, at least, one debt he doesn't plan on minding. If he'd been left in that bush, the other three crows would have eventually come after him. It might have been the end right there and then and not even in a way Lambert can imagine.

Death would be the good outcome of that, it's safe to say. Maybe someday he'll tell him that, but that's a very slim maybe.

In any case, he does make a disgruntled sound at being told he's not nearly cute enough — rude! True, but rude! — but that'll be it. Just as before, the crow won't fight being lifted and tucked away in the bag. If he's made it this far in one piece, now isn't the time to start misjudging this guy.

local man saves shitty bird from other shitty birds, three month ago

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