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The Thing With Feathers

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“Quick boys quick!”

....

“....Your weakness...”

...

“ I'll destroy...”

...

“INCOMING!”

 

The screaming whistles of mortar fire blended with his alarm clock and pushed Hawke upright, breathe heaving in his lungs as he awoke.

 

The force with which he hit the offending little field alarm clock he still used made it hop up in the air and snap shut in it's case.

“Shit!”

Hawke scrambled for the device and opened it with trembling fingers, checking the glass face and hinge for damage before setting it gently, reopened, back on his bed side table.

He dropped back onto his pillow to catch his breathe, staring into the darkness.



Eventually he pushed himself up and stumbled to the bathroom, ignoring the scars stretching across his chest as the hot water of the shower made them twinge.

Too soon he was out of his second floor apartment and stumbling downstairs, still yawning.

A light was on in the cafe's kitchen

 

He slowed, moving cautiously, ears piqued. Above him the sign for “Raven Wing Delicacies” sung lightly as the cafe's namesake landed on the sign.

 

“So I figure, right Buzzbee, I figure if I add the cayenne when it's...”

Hawke slumped in relief. “Maglo that you?” He called pressing the door open. His shout startled the raven away with a croak.

Sure enough in a corner of the kitchen, perched on a stool at his station the sugar artist and confectioner was making notes in a chocolate stained notebook over some sweet smelling concoction.

Hawke and Maglo, business partners, where a striking pair. Hawke was fair with white hair and eyes the brown of honey crystals. Maglo tan, with a permanent 5'oclock shadow, the small color as his auburn blond hair, hidden behind his glasses his eyes glance over at Hawke-one glass green and the other a cool blue. But both men where tall, and both carry scars. They are the scars of an old war and of this new life.

On automatic Hawke began to pull out flour and sugar, and checked on the state of the sour dough starter. “You're up earlier then usual.”

Maglo held up and an espresso cup from the front. “Never went to bed,” he explained and turned back to his notes. Below him Buzzbee, the sphinx cat, was wound around the feet of the stool. Distractedly the man reached down to the scritch the cat. “So I was thinking if...”

“I'm thinking if you stayed up all night experimenting and dirtied up the espresso machine our coffee wizard is going to be disappointed in you.” Hawke pointed out.

Doddle, their barista, nominal front of house manager and Queen of Caffeine had a sad look which could make a grown man tear up at ten paces.

Maglo froze. “You wouldn't dare tell her.” he challenged.

“She'll use the voice. And then she'll ask if you're okay.” Hawke half threatened.

Maglo launched off the stool, sticking the notebook in his vest. “Fuck's sake I'll clean the espresso machine.”

Once he was out of the kitchen Hawke palmed one of the bons bons Maglo had been working on and popped it in his mouth. He swore and coughed. “The fuck are in these? Acid!?”