Wings To Break Gravity

Care to Be Robbed By Parrots? Oh Wait, They Messed It Up. Aw, Man!

The dank, unrelenting hazy rot of Alamradica city air wafted through the dead black alley, proclaiming the slow death of a small mammal somewhere beneath the darkness of a street-side storm drain. It was not a good day for the mammal, a rat or other-nor any who stood near and met the odor. The smell was sweet, dreadfully masked among the rank, rancid smell of death, which was truly unsavory to pretend it was actually something pleasant, and remarkably, made the smell worse. 

The entire alley reeked. More than the stench of trash and rotten fruit, it was the sadness of an abandoned aisle-way community market that had been given up on and now only the convenient mugging spot for gangs of birds like these. It was tiny, particularly because it was just the small, forgotten and frankly embarrassing child of two large and grand buildings on the rich upper side apartments-mere tiny child in comparison. the tops glowed gold, but In the alley The only light was a dimmer glow of yellow, the gift of orange sparks leaping from the blades that now hung at a hooded figure's belt. He stands among a few stupefied bodies on the ground.

The stature of the figure was quite broad in shoulder, though it was likely an impression given of all the feathers covering his shoulders-he fancied himself qutie skinny, thank you. The cloak he now flops hastily onto his head was is sea-blue, and he draws the strings of the hoodie so the wool is tight around his face, and no unsuspecting passerby will be able to identify his face. They wouldn't have to see the huge yellow eyes, or the way his feathers streaked off on either side of his forehead like small white feline ears, or his small and sharp almond-shaped black beak. They wouldn't have to see a predator, one that was supposed to be snatching young chicks from their beds and silently lurking around the rooftops of orphanages looking for an easy way to glide in and fill their hunger. They wouldn't have to see an owl.

Hmmm, that got personal there. Let's try that again.

Kutamen spins his twin Furto-electro blades as he finishes shocking up the last of the gang, wrapping up the disappointing results of an alleyway ambush. His hands are on two lightsaber-esque blades that split into a fork at the end, and he gives the unconscious parrots that lay on the concrete around him a good little shock, just to be sure they can't steal from him any time soon. He runs what just happened in his head for a second time, just to be certain he hasn't glazed over any detail.

He, a white-and-hazel owl with quite long legs-walking through the streets in a black tuxedo covered by cyan poncho, and hearing a noise coming from an alley. Then, striding into the dark space of forgotten trash bins and now obsolete scrap metal, trapped between tall and ominous gray apartments. Then had been the ambush-a whirlwind of raisin feathers leapt from out the plastic litter of a trash bin, a flurry of feet descended from the stairs above, and the click of a blaster sounded behind, the sound of an enemy getting at his back- again. There had been three birds-all parrots, one a cherry red macaw, a hen the purple of a dried raisin, and a banana-yellow juvenile, who, in comparison to the others, had very scraggly and dirty yellow feathers. All of them were tired, based on the way they had moved so slowly and sluggishly-at least, compared to the top speeds of the parrots Kutamen had seen.

A full turn of the owl's feathery head, swiveling the laser mounted on his headphones to aim at the parrot behind him, and next dazing the bird with a squeeze of his eyes- the mental signal to fire the stun laser. Leaping off the concrete out onto the street's sunlight, as the sounds of two birds behind him-one hitting the ground, the other jumping onto the same spot- collided with each other in a disharmony of squawks, the frantic flapping of wings, and a rough bird foot being smacked across someone's head. When the owl had turned his head back to survey his would-be ambushers, he saw the scene that was now embarrassingly displayed in front of him-A gang of dull-feathered skinny bird-humanoids- all of which now lay on the ground in twitching, feathery bright heaps as they bawled for their mother-hens, losing their weak grip on consciousness with every moment. ANd to think, he thinks, with an amused kirr in his beak, that this had been an 'organized' scheme to take his crypto-pad.

Had been.

[NoteBro's Unsolicited Note: a kirr is like a purr for birds, a word I made up that sounds like the low growl sounds I believe humanoid birds would make in the back of their throats when they are pleased-sort of the bird version of a lion's growl or purr! (or frankly, just an evil pirate's laughter before they get into a long-winded and unessecary monologue!)]

His large yellow eyes swept past the humiliating robbery attempt's results down to the pouch at his waist, still unperturbed after his near mugging, and he patted the clinking metal inside affectionately with one soft feathered wing. No way they would've gotten their feathers on this. It was, as much as the nobility in the uptown metropolis would like to deny, the only way to be free in this city-and Kutamen wasn't about to hand it over to someone else. In particular, certainly not a group of ruffians who couldn't even complete a simple robbery without botching it up-no, most certainly not. He tucks his lightsabers blades back into his belt and threw his poncho back over his chest. Man, it was blistering outside.  

Yellow sulfur, like disease, glides along the lazy air of the city like a cheap and lazy replacement for the blue skies robbed from his view. The stench invades the alley and yellow wisps attack his beak; his black beak pricks up at the thought of having to stay here any longer. He will have to be quick in his analysis. He bends down and brushed his feathers across the unconscious parrot's forehead-not in a manner of grace or adoration, mind you, but because this bright-red attacker happens to be the unlucky yobbo who had gotten hit by one of his clumsy partners, and the owl wants a good measure of how powerful these birds were-a quick measure of how much mortal danger he had been in, he supposes.

But still, those bodies were pretty bruised. A plucked-out clump of feathers here, a tender and near purple patch of skin on another's skull-it wasn't good. And looking over the curled-up birds' clothes-a ragged pinstripe suit, a thing and fraying cotton purple-yellow plaid work shirt, and the last one: a muddy stained white tank top-they looked lower class, didn't they? Beggard, by some Upper-town standards. And the one with the tank top was wearing a red tie that did not 'kill' the look in slimy dark brown mud- though it did definitely harm the look. It was funny, and curious, Kutamen thought to himself, that killing the look was quite a thing to be celebrated, but just harming the look was not a good thing. Society, even to a humanoid owl hybrid that lived on a planet with 7 times Earth's radiation, was wack.

But enough of that. He peers back down to the limp, poorly dressed forms. The owl's guess? These guys had recently been fired from their day jobs. Poor saps-and the reason Kutamen either worked as a bounty-hunter-slash-inventor mash-up on his own or with others in Inventor's Hangouts-loose social circles (that met and bonded over a few good shots of tea at the city's arcade) that didn't feel the need to cast you out if your job didn't meet their impossible expectations involving what you should spend the majority of your life doing. 

That, and they were relaxed and didn't act like drones with every word, saying each syllable like it had been rehearsed and filtered in their minds many times over before. Their ideas, terribly good or greatly bad, were always straight from the depths of their minds, and For that reason, along with the fact that they accepted this 'big, scary owl dude'- Kutamen found it enjoyable to be around these Inventor folk.

Studying the dazed parrots, It was unfortunate that these chaps had been unfortunate enough to have gotten involved with this planet's government. He could tell. By the way their feathers sagged and had lost their vibrancy, and how they wallets were empty, They'd probably been overworked, and now cast aside once they'd outlived usefulness-no more important than a used tissue. And despite his better thoughts of not showing sympathy, he plans, in traitorous sympathy, to leave a couple heal-pads next to the unconscious robbers. He notes the dark electric burns racing along their spine and ribs, cleanly burned and measured, almost grill marks panini-pressed onto their feathery necks. Then, from behind, a disturbance. A rattling of garbage cans that crashes through the entire dark alley, sounds unnaturally loud in the dim street-lamp gloom of the alley.

A thrill of alarm rushes through his body-but on the outside, Kutamen doesn't trouble himself to flinch.

If anyone is behind him, it was likely already too late. But this time, for them.

The owl smiles to himself.