Flight School: Predator

Heated Frost

To Io, home was a concept he thought simple throughout his years of childhood. There was barely a difference between home and the rest of the world because he always felt like he belonged—except when his feet were not touching the ground, but as it is, that was a rare case—and perhaps this was all because the 'rest of his world' simply consisted of...his tiny village.

Was he, therefore, justified in his naïve and simplistic thinking?

That the world was so small, so limited, so compact in nature that it was all so easy to understand; barely anything more to be seen or uncovered because everything was already known and nothing uncertain—

"Are you listening?"

His gaze dropped to the lady who was speaking, seemingly at him for her eyes were practically fixed upon his blank stare, taking a moment to come back. "Yes...but, no. No, not really," the boy admitted with a smile that was sheepish and shy.

He was feeling a little nervous under her gaze, especially since his chest was bare and his skin was awfully chilled. Io was quietly grateful that she let him keep his pants on.

"I need you to lift your arms," her lips drew thin as she said so, as though it was the third time she had said this only to realize that he hadn't been listening earlier. "I can't take your measurements if you aren't cooperating you know—it doesn't work like that. Do you want your uniform or not?"

No he didn't. He didn't really, not now.

It had been an hour since Io was brought to the tailor's, an odd-looking, old-fashioned door beside the post that no one (not predators) seemed to notice except whenever they required some help with a torn sleeve or a shorter skirt. The latter was fairly popular. Io however, had come to have his new uniform made—tailored, as a matter of fact—to his tiny frame that reminded the nice (nice?) lady inside of a sparrow.

Specifically put however, the boy did not need to have his uniform tailored on normal occasions. In fact, the majority of predators didn't. So when he posed this peculiar occurrence to Professor Alfred, the council representative who (quite explicitly) bore a distaste for this particular student, he was rather pressured by the response.

"If you are, indeed, whatever they call you," was him being the moon phoenix really that hard to say? "Then you are one of the hearts—and every heart has their uniform custom made to their taste and preferences to ensure their comfort. We cater to our students very kindly."

Alfred had stated this stiffly without a second glance at the boy and it did nothing to help Io's building anxiety of the new and of change in general; which every other human found difficulty in embracing.

In fact, this unprecedented excursion to the tailor's in the predator dormitories (first thing in the morning!) was met with a highly disconcerting lurch in his gut—a sign that Io took to mean a turn in his fortune. If he ever had any in the first place. He felt, then, rather displaced and breaching the boundaries of his comfort zone that was critical, especially, in the day.

Luna would be sleeping.

"Alright. Turn around." He obliged.

"Can you stand a little straighter? No slouching." He did as told.

"No one's ever had a coat this short," He heard her mumbling to herself and thought that it wasn't exactly something meant for him to hear but the very volume and clarity of her murmurs laid out the truth that was in conflict with his thoughts. "Sticks."