entrancelogs | blue canary in the outlet by the light switch

Entry tags:

blue canary in the outlet by the light switch

Who: (Blue) Jay Merrick + You
Where: Media club + the woods behind the gym
When: August 3rd to 6th
Rating: PG (May change)
Summary: This half-plucked blue jay may not be the greatest student, but he's got interests beyond the classroom.
The Story:

Media Club:

Wherever he ends up getting into college, Jay's going to major in film. That's basically a given, though it's not because because he's a brilliant filmmaker. He likes movies, sure, and he likes learning the minutiae that go into making them. It's not exactly a passion, but it's something, and it's adjacent to his other interests.

There isn't a major in paranormal research, though--he checked--so his best chance at college prep is within the school's media club.

They're showing off their personal projects this week. Jay's got a sharpie-marked DVD under his wing. Anybody like amateur documentaries?

The Woods:

The game's already over, and the lights on the athletic field have been turned off. Nobody in their right mind would still be here this late on a school night, no matter how many questions they had for their AP physics teacher.

Jay's heard rumors, though, stories about people in the classrooms adjacent the woods seeing a too-tall silhouette between the trees. Some people say it's just a malformed tree trunk. Others say it's a human. Still others say it looks more like a water-bird, like some kind of crane, though it's taller than any crane they've ever met. Paler, too, with bleach-white feathers standing out against the leaves.

Whatever it is, Jay intends to get it on film.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That little maneuver goes about as well as one would expect - which is to say, not at all. Tim doesn't fight it when he pushes away, but the anticipatory shuffle of his weight across the leaf litter is a pretty solid indication that he's expecting the attempt to backfire.

"I can't fly," he says, a terse undertone. "Remember?"

That's...that's what kind of plan he's hinting at, right? What other kind of plan would involve the canopy overhead?

"I'll come back," Jay snipes, a little too forcefully. The birdie doth protest too much, something in the back of his head pipes up, helpfully reminding him of the copy of Hamlet he left in his backpack. ~~It's that thing's now. Hope it has as much fun with it as Jay did.~~

"Listen, I can...If I get enough hei--" His voice catches in his throat, and he tries to cover it with a cough. "If I can get high up there enough, maybe I c'n see where we are."

He has to take a second to catch his breath, give his beak a break. It's all still sluggish. His tongue's got pins and needles, and his foot doesn't even have that. He can't even feel it.

"Then we know where's...the way out."

Flying's easier than walking, anyway. It'll be fine.

"Are you in any condition to fly? You can barely stand." Forgive him if he's skeptical, Jay, but he's been supporting you this entire way and is pretty dubious that you can manage to fly in a straight line, let alone play at some recon. He's not a doctor. He has no idea how bad it is, what the guy might've done to his foot, but it's not going to make landing any easier.

"What about landing? If you crash, I - " I'm not going to come back for you again, he almost says, but the lie doesn't seem plausible. He's the one trying to keep the poor idiot alive and moving, even if he has virtually no reason to give a fuck.

There's some kind of rationalization there he could probably dredge up if he put his mind to it. He shoves it viciously aside instead.

"If you crash, that wouldn't be ideal."

"Well, if we die out here, that's probab--prob'ly even less ideal." He pushes off from Tim again, wavering on his feet, and shuffles backwards until he's a little over a wing's length away.

"Lemme just try."

He doesn't quite take off, not yet, but he stretches his wings, trying to ignore the pins-and-needles prickling along the length of them, trying to ignore the way the dirt clings to the barbs of his feathers, pulling them out of alignment.

Tim got him this far. Jay owes him one.

If we die out here.

It's a damn good thing that Tim isn't the sort to laugh at that, or at things in general, because otherwise he'd be sorely tempted to let loose at that little gem. If they die, that sure would suck, wouldn't it? It'd suck for Jay, sure.

"Your funeral," says Tim, because he might not be laughing, but he's still got a sense of gallows humor to rival all else. What else is he supposed to do? They haven't got a plan here. Might as well let the guy try, even if he's probably doomed from the start.

Jay doesn't laugh either, just lets out a quiet, derisive huff of air. Jay's lost, and Tim probably never knew where he was in the first place. They could be fine, or they could be walking deeper into the woods. They could've gotten turned around. It could be biding its time, waiting for them to get too wiped out to flee, waiting for Tim's wing to set crooked or Jay's leg to go fucking...necrotic or whatever it's doing.

Better to die trying something, right?

He checks over his shoulder, peering into the woods. He can still hear the rustling of the leaves in the wind. The light fades out the way he expects, uneven, speckled with moonlight.

Jay runs the first few flight feathers on each wing through his beak, grimacing at the texture on his tongue. Probably didn't accomplish much. His mom tells him it won't feel that way if he does it more often, but he's got his doubts.

He adjusts the camera.

And with a frantic shuffling of feathers against the leaves, Jay takes off.

He regrets it instantly, the buzzing in his head returning full-force. His vision swims. He's still airborne, though, somehow. He pauses in mid-air, flapping furiously to hold his position long enough to get a better view. He squints into the darkness, seeing double.

On a good day, he'd be able to keep his balance on an upright twig, but that sounds like a worse joke than Tim's with the way he's--Shit.

Jay dips for a dizzying moment, wings flaring out to turn his clumsy dive into an arc. He barely has enough time to shut his eyes before he crashes through a clump of narrow branches. Nothing to land on, even if he tried; they bend and snap to accommodate him, raking against the patches of skin they can reach through the feathers.

His wings shoot out again, curving him back upwards, trying to make up for lost altitude. His head throbs, and another wave of unnatural vertigo hits hard enough to make him retch; he has to land, now.

He sees a place. It's close to the trunk, sturdy, twisted with notches in the bark where he can dig in his claws. He tucks in his wings, diving for it.

It'd be a near-perfect landing, if he hadn't forgotten he had one functioning leg. Instead, his working foot clings to the branch, and he swings forward, flapping to right himself. His bad foot, curled around nothing, scrapes uselessly against the rough bark of the branch. He realizes with a jolt that he felt it scraping, felt the skin between the scales split and sting against the air. It's muted, but he felt it. Maybe it's not quite necrotic after all.

He takes a moment to check his balance before peering down, ignoring the way his gut lurches. He can see sparse patches of the forest floor, maybe even something that could be a trail, but there isn't a crow immediately visible in any of it.

"Tim?"

He can't have flown far. He can't. Right?

He can walk just fine, if awkwardly, brokenly, in fumbling, wobbling paths. His unwitting partner in crime takes off with a rustle of leaves and batted twigs, and leaves Tim behind, groundbound and waiting for his return.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It'd be so fucking perfect, wouldn't it, to just ditch him and go? To keep flying, so he doesn't have to be dragged down by all this fucking deadweight. As soon as the possibility reveals itself to him, Tim swears under his breath and starts moving with renewed fervor. If he's not coming back, then he has to move. He has to move fast. He has to get out of here before whatever it is - before whatever It is comes back and bleeds into his vision, his broken fucking brain.

He doesn't have a camera or a bag to worry about. Just a shit sense of direction, coupled with the unfortunate bottom line that he has no idea where he's going or which direction home is. How he's supposed to get out. Panic is a swarm of hornets threatening to choke him out; he only woke up here. He could die here. He could wander, forever, lost in some fogged-up void that presses up against his closed eyes and smothers him in his sleep -

That's roughly the point in time where something crackles overhead, raining fragments of bark and twig down over him.

He glances up and squints. Doesn't remember saying his name, but introductions weren't his priority. Maybe he's just recognizable enough by his neuroses, his frequent class absences, the obvious nature of just how fucked his neurochemistry is.

"Who's there?"

He never asked his name, did he? 'Course not. That'd require him to be halfway decent at baseline.

"Who d'you think?" Jay snipes, his voice sounding too loud in the stillness of the woods. (Weren't there crickets, just a second ago?) Jay's not sure, but he thinks he heard an echo. "It's--"

He halts, adjusting his balance on the branch, fluffing up despite himself. Great. Now Tim has to be wondering what the end of that sentence was going to be. Now he's gotta go through the whole spiel.

"Look, don't laugh, alright?"

"I don't think you have to worry about that here," says Tim, because I laugh at a rate of maybe two times per year total is too many words for him to bother with just now, and the fact that he's getting that as an answer is perfect grounds to speak as flatly and sarcastically as possible.

Thankfully, cold condescension is a mood that comes naturally to him. It's one of his lesser qualities. Though the use of the word "lesser" implies that he has qualities that are decent to begin with, which he takes firm issue with.

"Fine, it's Jay." Har-har. "'S a family name."

Both a joke and the stupid truth. It'd probably go down easier if he wasn't saying it like he had his claws around something's throat, but that's a little too much to ask right now. Like he hadn't been target enough since kindergarten with the patches of feathers missing and the camera strapped to his chest and the way he won't talk when people want him to talk and shut up when people don't and the way he talks like there are things we don't know about yet, like he believes ghosts and creatures and a dark void between the trees that splits your head open are real.

Tim doesn't need to deal with his bullshit.

"Since it seemed like you didn't hear it in class."

But Jay's gonna keep acting like he needs to, isn't he?

True to his word, he doesn't laugh. He doesn't do much of anything but blink, and kind of sigh at himself because he probably should have guessed sooner. Jay. Figures.

"I'm bad with names," he says, which is technically true. He has a bad memory. Things leak out of it all the damn time, and there's nothing much he can do about it. Case in point: he still doesn't quite know how he ended up here. He just kind of wants to not be here anymore.

"I'm not really in class a whole lot anyway."

Tim doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't try and turn what Jay just handed him against him. He just sighs and takes it onto himself. Not everybody's this weird about memorizing names, Jay. Not everybody treats their classmates like they're trading cards.

Still, it's hard to keep the defenses up when the other guy's attacking himself.

"Yeah." That desk's empty more often than not. Jay has wondered more than once how Tim manages to get his homework in. "You, uh...skip, or d'you just have, like...weird luck with getting sick?"

Jay takes a breath, trying to get the adrenaline to shut up and let him do what he's up here to do. Jay focuses on the color of the ground, tracing the patterns surrounding the tree trunks, looking for any spots that are too broad, lines that are too straight. He thought he saw the trail before, but he's got to make sure before he goes swooping down there to check.

He doesn't want to have to get back up again.

"Let's just focus on getting out of here. Okay?" He's not here to make conversation. He doesn't want to be here at all, if it's all the same to him. He just kind of ended up somewhere he didn't want to be, which is just...the story of his goddamn life.

Not that he wants to be at school most days either. It's just that school is at least a familiar setting and he can usually say that he knows how he got there and when, and he can't always claim the same where his fucking life is concerned.

"What do you see up there?"

Priorities. Right.

"I think I can kinda make out..."

He squints, tilting forward as far as he can with only half as many claws gripping the branch as there should be. There's an unusual sparseness to a line of trees behind Tim, moonlight hitting more of the ground than he's seeing elsewhere. Could be nothing, but it also could mean there's a clearing behind them. Clearing doesn't necessarily mean trail, but from the distance it stretches, curving slightly as it follows a dip in the ground, he's pretty sure he's got something.

"Behind you, kinda to the left--your left. You think that's it?"

Tim's fine on the ground. He can check it out. He doesn't need Jay attempting another treetop landing. Jay's not sure he'll get this lucky twice.

I don't know, Jay, he almost fires back with a ruthless familiarity, before realizing he doesn't know Jay that well, and if he's any more unpleasant than he's already been, that may very well end this impromptu partnership for good. Jay can still fly, after all, and Tim can't.

The only thing worse than being stuck here with someone who can't stand him is being left here alone.

"I guess we're gonna see." He starts moving, slow, and sure enough, the trees start to thin out. "I think it might be."

Jay wavers on his branch, the temptation to take off tugging at him, just as another wave of nausea tightens his grip.

"You think," he snaps, "or...?"

"I'm not the one with the bird's eye view, asshole. Give me a minute." Bird's eye view. Funny, right? Yeah. He's fucking hilarious. He's just trying to cover ground when he's not supposed to be moving on the ground at all, and the darkness pressing around him at all edges isn't helping.

"It's...yeah." He can't fight the bite of relief that curls up in the posterior of his brain, dopamine and shot nerves shivering his feathers. "It's a way out. It's a way out."

And that's good enough for Jay.

He drops, stomach lurching with regret the instant he feels his claws slip from the branch. His wings shoot out a second later, redirecting the dive into a glide, and while it's not as even as he'd like, at least it's horizontal.

Jay coasts toward Tim. His descent is slow, gradual. His legs stretch out to meet the ground, and--

He lands too hard, tumbling end over end into a patch of brambles.

There's silence, and then a low moan. "Fuuuck."

Earth to Jay, he thinks. Then: Jay to Earth. That's almost funny. He feels like he should rupture his internal organs laughing, because it's so fucking stupid and he's probably a horrible person for making that joke, because Jay's probably actually kind of seriously hurt, so a decent person would be taking him to the - the nurse's office or something, or a doctor, seeing as they're after school hours now. Fucking obviously.

"Maybe you should stick to flying," says Tim, painfully pointlessly. But he sighs, and starts moving to intercept. See if he can actually help and not just comment sarcastically on the sidelines. "You...uh, can you get up?"

"Safer down here, thanks," Jay mumbles, still splayed out and half-tangled in the brambles.

He hates that he says it. He hates how backwards it sounds. He hates how he's not sure he's got full control of his limbs, how something that should just work suddenly takes effort, how stumbling and hopping across the ground like a human is suddenly preferable to being up where things can't get at him. He shouldn't be getting vertigo. It shouldn't feel safer down here.

That whatever it was did something to his head. He felt it burrowing under his skull, under his skin, even if he couldn't see what it was doing. It must have done this on purpose.

God, he feels sick.

"Gimme a...gimme a second."

Gingerly, he pushes back with his wings against the ground, against the branches, and tries to pull himself upright. He braces himself for the agony to set in, but it doesn't hit. No indication that anything's broken. His whole body aches, though. He can feel bruises dotting up his side, across both wings. Even his bad leg twinges with the world's faintest case of pins and needles. His head throbs.

Fuck, how's the camera? He tilts his head down frantically, wincing as pain shoots down his neck. Red light's still on, lens looks...it's fine. There's a little dirt, maybe a chip in the corner, but it's still running. He blows on it, trying to clear the worst of it off. That's definitely a chip in the glass.

Still, all things considered, that wasn't as much of a disaster as it could have been.

Squinting, he pokes his head out of the leaves.

"That better be the trail."

Oh, sure, all the warning signs are there. But he's not Tim, is he? He doesn't go missing for hours on end. He wandered out here to try and find something, and he fucking found it, all right. He doesn't miss days of class, or get dizzy fits, or hear voices. He doesn't see things in the corners of his fucking eyes.

Pointless. Fucking pointless asking, acting like they've got any common ground here. Like anyone wants to have anything in common with the local freak.

"It's gotta be," says Tim, with more confidence than he actually feels. "You'd...you can walk on your own. Right?"

He'd better be. He just wants to go home.

"Yeah, I'm..." He shuffles out from behind the leaves, leaning on his good leg. His numb foot doesn't look as tightly curled, but it still drags unnaturally along the ground. Jay spares it a glance, and even though he can't feel it, he's pretty sure the ankle's swollen. He'll probably hate himself for putting as much weight on it as he has, but that's a problem for future Jay.

That assumes future Jay doesn't have permanent nerve damage. That also assumes future Jay isn't going to need to have it amputated. He feels like he should be panicking about this, but at this point, it's been shuffled pretty far down the queue.

"Uh, I'm--" He hobbles forward a few steps before stumbling, flaring out a wing against the ground to right himself. A muscle in his back twinges in protest. "Yeah."

Priorities. He can figure out how to walk later. First, he has to figure out where he's walking.

"I...Yeah, this is..it's the trail." He takes a moment to process what he's looking at, to mentally hold up the images against the map, against his own memories. This isn't the first time he's been out here. "I mean, definitely. If we're...if we're past the picnic tables, then we gotta head that way."

He gestures with a jerk of his head, pointing with his beak.

"And I think...yeah, we gotta be past the picnic tables, or we'd be able to see the, uh, the lights from here. The streetlights." He pauses, cocking his head as his thoughts take an abrupt left turn. "You...okay, by the way?"

Something in Jay got fried when he strayed too far behind, but Tim was right there to help. (How long was he out? How long before Tim got there?) Did Tim just get lucky? Did it just skip over him? Did it leave before he got there? Is Tim gonna pass out on him? Are his legs just gonna spontaneously stop working, too?

What happens if that thing finds them again?

"I'm not the one who's having trouble walking."

He's not in any particular state he can't handle. He's not dealing with anything he hasn't already dealt with. He's...he's not fine, but he's never been fine, cannot, in fact, remember the last time he could quantify his state of being as fine without lying through his beak about it, but his metric for fine is skewed on the lower end compared to most. So, for the moment: yes. He's fine.

"You're going to a doctor after this. Right?" Oh my god, why does he care? What does it fucking matter, what Jay does? He's just some asshole who was asking too many questions and thinks he's in a ghost hunting documentary and they're wasting time.

Jay takes a moment to look down at himself, and then back up at Tim's crooked wing.

"Y-yeah. The ER's supposed to be open all night, right?" His head cants to the side, genuinely unsure. "So we could just..."

Fly there. Great idea.

"Call a...call a cab or something, I dunno."

He doesn't have a car yet, and his parents are gonna kill him for staying out this late anyway. Then they'll probably hook him up to a pair of jumper cables and bring him back, Frankenstein-style, and then kill him again once they figure out he got lost in the woods and screwed up his leg. Or his brain, or whatever that thing did to...

Shit, he doesn't hear crickets. He doesn't hear anything further than the shuffling of the leaves beneath his and Tim's feet. It's like somebody switched off everything beyond the edges of the trail.

He tries to catch Tim's eye. Is it just me?

ER. Like he needs more medical bills in his life. That's assuming that Jay's not going to be fucking himself over if he asks for a check-up, just to make sure that he's compos mentis for the moment. Call a cab, he says, like either of them can afford it. He shouldn't be working himself up over the prospect of how they're going to pay for it - they have to make it through this first, after all, in order to be able to pay for it.

"What?" says Tim. Then, quieter, more urgent: "What?"

The world is quiet.

Unnervingly so.

"...come on," he mutters, low, urgent. "Come on. We have to get out of here now."

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jay merrick: anxious bird with bad ideas, now in teenager form

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