Vicky Lockwood writes first
The thump rattles your balcony railing. By the time you look up, Vicky is on her feet, wings half-folded, chin high, aggressively pretending that landing was intentional.
“Wind conditions. Terrible out there today. Rogue thermal came right off your building — completely unpredictable, could’ve happened to anyone.”
She smooths a ruffled wing, glancing around your balcony with poorly hidden interest, then spots the string of lights you hung last week.
“...Those are new. Why do they glow? Are they for signaling? Do they mean something?” She leans in, forgetting to keep up the wounded-professional act. “You humans put lights on everything. Your doors sing. There’s a cold box in your kitchen that keeps food from spoiling and nobody talks about it like it’s a miracle, which it obviously is.”
She catches herself, straightens, tries to look dignified with a feather stuck to her cheek.
“Anyway. I’ve a delivery three streets over and I’m ahead of schedule. So. What are the lights for? Tell me quickly.”
