2019-07-23 - Bird With a Broken Wing

The Hughes House is a relatively modest house on the outskirts of town - in an area that used to only have a smattering of single family homes. Lots have been subdivided in recent years and things have gotten denser, though it's still not even close to crowded. It's surrounded in tall, moss-draped trees with plenty of needles underfoot. The house itself is unremarkable - a three-bedroom baby blue house with a white trim and door. The outbuilding is newer, and it borders on a small stream. Behind the house is a thick wood, with only a few walking trails that are only kept cut by a few of the locals who use it.

Gideon is currently in the outbuilding, tending to the cages of wild birds with various injuries or ailments. His little menagerie is relatively sparse at the moment. There's only the birds and a juvenile raccoon with an injured leg who is awaiting transfer to a proper rehabilitation facility. He emerges from the building after refilling seed and cleaning cages. He carries a bag towards a dumpster.

It's hard to say when the shift happened, though up until the moment that Gideon stepped back out into late afternoon sun, everything seemed pretty normal. Routine, even. Noise in the shed rises up behind him, the birds starting to chirp and chatter nervously, their wings - injured or not - beat against the side of the cage as they hop and bang into the side of their enclosure.

It's just a precursor really, an instinct that wild animals have that something Isn't Right. The noise they create seems to echo in the woods just beyond the clearing of Gideon's yard, angry caws coming from the hidden shadows of the dense branches. Then all of a sudden hundreds of birds take flight, each spurred by the last that left the safety of the boughs. Black of wing, ravens all of them, flap away from the trees over Gideon's head as if spooked and needing escape from something. Something that's coming.

Just before the blanket of oddness comes over, Gideon ditches the bag of cage-cleanings. He's about to head back to the house when the unkindness of ravens swams overhead. He looks up, blinking slowly. Unusual, to say the least. He looks towards the woods, then, starts to walk briskly back to his house, away from those woods that suddenly feel darker and more sinister than they did a moment before.

And then it can be heard: the sound of a gunshot from the trees. Perhaps that's what scattered the birds in the first place, or it was just the presence of whomever is toting such a weapons through the underbrush. From the sound of it it's a shotgun, and if there was any doubt, there is another shot to help identify it. Soon the sound of something - or someone - crashing through the briars and brambles is heard, followed by whooping laughter and yet another shot that sounds as if its splintering the trunk of a tree.

And then there's the scream of a woman.

There's no hunting in these woods - or at least there's not supposed to be. It's too close to town - the houses with families too close together, the woods themsleves dense but not especially large. Gideon darts back to the out-building, then pushes bags of feed off a long wooden box with a latch that is locked with a combination. It takes him a few tries to get it, but then he's freed the ancient shotgun from its case. He drops in a pair of shells, then stuffs his pockets with a few more. Then he starts towards the woods, cautiously. He's not very good with the weapon - they mostly keep it to scare away bears or raccoons, but he knows which way to point it. He approaches the small footbridge over the stream that leads to the narrow path, creeping forward cautiously.

Just over the foot bridge, the path seems to nearly disappear into the darkness of the woods that seem far denser and sinister as the afternoon rays of sun don't seem to penetrate and filter into the leaves. A blonde woman breaks through brush, pushing back the springy branches of a sapling with her right hand before it goes back to clamping her opposing elbow. It's the waitress from the Grizzly, though instead of an apron, Bennie is wearing a long nightgown that's torn from being caught on thorns and stained dark from dirt as if she fell or was pushed to her knees. Blood comes from a small cut above her eye and her hair is wild and tangled. Whether or not Gideon raises the gun to see her as a threat, she gargles one word as she reaches the edge of the trees. "Run!"

If Gideon had better reflexes with the weapon, he might have been close to getting a shot off. But the thing is clumsy in his hands, and he has no real desire to fire it. He's identified her before he's even aimed. His eyes widen. "What's...?" he blinks, recognizing the uniform before the face. "Who's chasing you?" He tries to see through the darkness, but he's also stepping backwards, though there's a lot of exposed roots on the barely-there trail.

If Gideon had better reflexes with the weapon, he might have been close to getting a shot off. But the thing is clumsy in his hands, and he has no real desire to fire it. He's identified her before he's even aimed. His eyes widen. "What's...?" he blinks, recognizing the face but not immediately placing her. "Who's chasing you?" He tries to see through the darkness, but he's also stepping backwards, though there's a lot of exposed roots on the barely-there trail.

Those roots aren't just plentiful, they are moving, trying to grip at ankles and draw the pair back into the darkness that doesn't just seem to consume the woods but emanates from it. Draw them back to the all too cheerful laughter of whomever is chasing after Bennie and now Gideon by proxy.

Bennie's eyes are wild with panic as she jumps and tramples the roots, trying to get past them and to whatever perceived safety that Gideon's house in the distance seems to signify. She half stumbles the rest of the way up to Gideon, features drawn tight in pain. "My father's friends...they want me to come back with them..." She pants out the words with lungs screaming for breath as she dares a glance backwards. "Please help me. Please!"

There's a look of utter confusion on Gideon's face. Father? Friends? What's going on? He trips, stumbles, but manages to stay on his feet despite the reaching roots. He swings the barrel of the rifle around in the darkness, but keeps moving backwards as he does.

Bennie hugs her limp left arm closer to her chest, flinching behind Gideon as another shot echoes out from the darkness. It's hard to say how close they are, because everything seems to echo around, the sounds traveling out into the clearing and bouncing back off the buildings.

"You think he's going to save you, little girl? Doncha know he killed his sister out here?" The sinister words are followed by more laughter, coming from at least three sources judging by the different pitches and chortles.

Sure, she's heard the rumors, but Bennie has always dispelled them as just that. After all, there are her far share of them orbiting her own family. But in just that instance, there is doubt, and the Blonde takes off in a run of renewed energy.

Gideon swings the barrel wildly about at the seemingly multiple sources of the laughter. But he doesn't fire. Perhaps he doesn't have the courage, or he knows in his gut it will do no good. He stares at the darkness, eyes wide, breath coming sharp and short. It takes him a minute to realize that Bennie has run off behind him. He mutters a curse under his breath, then sets off to run after her. Not to chase her, but she's on the only thing resembling a path out of the thick woods.

As he runs, his memory flashes back, muddy but somehow intense. Of a night running out of these woods many years ago, so covered in blood that he slipped on the path. It seems inconcievable that a six year old could take down a teenager - but someone who could do that would certainly be someone to fear.

Of course 'running after' and 'chasing' are purely subjective, but thankfully Bennie's fleeing seems more intent on getting away from the men in the woods rather than Gideon himself as she retains some semblance of collectedness despite the well of fear in her chest. She makes it over the foot bridge before she glances back for the vet, taking her hand away from her injured arm to reach and beckon for him to urge him faster.

She must see something past his shoulder, because her eyes round out and her mouth opens in a silent scream of warning just as the ground explodes at Gideon's feet with a barely missed shot, pellets kicking up dirt and rocks.

Gideon staggers, side-steps and lets out a fearful sound that chokes in his throat. He seems to have forgotten he's holding a gun. He glances back over his shoulder and then looks back to Bennie. He runs full-tilt now, less mindful of roots and stones, but also taking longer strides.

The threat to Gideon is a horse of a different color. When Bennie's fear for herself turns into fear for someone else's safety, she instinctually raises her hand to try and stop them the only way she knows will work: with her Glimmer. It'd be dangerous setting fire to one of the trees, but it might be enough of a distraction to allow them to escape. Only the flame never comes.

The failure brings more laughter as three men emerge from the edge of the wood as if they are materializing rather than stepping forward. "We're getting wise to your ways, Girlie. Now come here so we can talk." Something seems to catch at the bottom hem of her nightgown, an unseen force tugging the material sharply so she pitches forward onto her knees.

There's nothing in Gideon's arsenal that can protect them - especially from something they can't see. But when the men emerge, he raises the shotgun. The barrel shakes and his finger twitches on the trigger. He finds some kind of reserve of strength and positions himself between Bennie and the men. "Stay...back," he stutters.

With Gideon between them, the pull on Bennie's clothing suddenly slags and she pitches forward on all fours with a yelp of pain as her left palm strikes the ground. It leaves her whimpering in a heap behind Gideon for a moment, stunned from the jolt so there is no retribution immediately forthcoming from the blonde.

Unfortunately the three men just continue to creep forward, the roots and tangles that threatened the vet and EMT seem to part as if afraid of their footfalls. "Ain't that cute." The one in the middle, perhaps the ringleader intones mockingly, "Guess he's only good at beatin' up on girls. What really happened back then, Doc? Big sis caught you doing stuff you weren't supposed ta? Or were you playing surgeon because you ran out of stray cats. That's why you're a vet, right? You like takin' 'em apart?"

There's a tickle in the back of Gideon's skull. Flashes of memory threaten to unseat him. The gun continues to shake, so much that it's unlikely he could shoot straight. Besides, there's only one shot before he'd have to reload.

Somewhere overhead, a raven breaks a branch as it moves from tree to tree. He looks up at it, then spots another. And another. Normally, he uses his ability to calm frightened animals, especially wild ones. But this time, he seeks to throw the ravens into a rage - and direct the unkindness to the three men.

The ravens' caws become more hectic, suddenly angered. It's well within their nature to be protective of their habitat and it's as if each of them now has a collective nest to protect. Diving out of their flight, they become sharp beaked missiles as they dart down and around the group of three men, pecking and clawing as their wings beat against upraised arms amid yelps of surprise and pain.

One of the men gets off another shot, but it goes wild from the intended target of Gideon, instead clipping one of the ravens in the wing high in the air. Overhead, the bird starts a crazed spiral of descent, its black feathers losing the dark color from their fringes until it thuds, falling in a heap of frantic tweets at Gideon's feet. The once black raven a color that can only be described as Blonde.

No one is more surprised than Gideon that any of this worked. He is frozen for a moment, watching the bird spiral down. Once it hits, he reaches out instinctively to scoop up the injured animal, only to find no bird, but a bag of trash. He looks back over his shoulder to find Bennie, but finds her gone - along with the men. He stands there for a moment, frozen and breathing heavily. Then, very slowly, he straightens, fingers looping around the tie of the garbage bag. Then he backpedals, finally crossing the footbridge into the perceived safety of his own back yard.