The Fearsome Encounter (GBS3G8) [Round 3: Ark of Hope]

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Part 1/????

"Yo, Brasillarch," ventured a lapwing, materialising beside the junglefowl.

"Get back inside," snapped Brasillarch.

"Oh, yeah, sure, in a sec. Just wanted to see how my favourite.... guy? Gal? Galliforme? Was doing?"

Brasillarch dispatched him with a spur through the face, kicking at the crate underfoot a bit until it was clean enough for his sensibilities to permit he resume prim vigil over the quarry. The cockerel flexed a wingtip. A sturdy chain with a police dog straining on the end of it, that would be nice in a situation like this. Not the good old days, per se - even he could acknowledge that was tasteless - but comforting. The flock seemed to share his energy, judging from the (so little restraint, detestable) hollers and taunts a handful others issued from their perches.

They'd chased the smoke, at some length, through the cargo hold, finally squaring up the mannequin in an alcove between crates to drive him into. Wait for him to wander into. Whatever. Brasillarch kept militarily ruthless pursuit, following the lead of the two falcons, keeping the air clear and the wings strong on Parliament's eyes. There were still three, four, further afield, their work deemed essential enough to warrant the diversion; Brasillarch didn't need the specifics.

The hierofalcons (a Saker and the gyrfalcon who'd first laid claws on Cthaasa) landed on the two crates flanking the exit, one peering down into the alcove and the other watching the way they'd come, poised to pursue if Viscount tried running again.

The mannequin, sitting nonchalant on a box of tinned beans, uncrossed its arms, almost toppled over, sat up, stood up, then jerkily patted its left side down a bit. Tourmaline Pratts appeared on the Mannequin's shoulder, raising a wing in a "please hold" gesture to a confused and annoyed Viscount.

"Ah, here we are..."

Pratts pulled two coins from a pocket, fumbling and flapping about a little as pained squawks rang from the ceiling, where the ex-junta junglefowl was clearing out the nosebleed (beakbleed?) seats. The starling hopped off Parliament, then bounded to where you might tentatively put Viscount's metaphorical feet, laying the coins down before -poof!- vanishing. Somebird up on top of the shipping containers nudged a naked bulb, every other swing of it casting the currency in just enough light to put a glint on the curves of the inscribed numerals.

"Cellular, Modular, Interactiveodular," warblaughed a chiffchaff, before Brasillarch kicked her head in.

Viscount seethed even as he snatched up the coins, knowing for sure the birds were toying with him. One coin, as he'd suspected, was his; the other bore Saturday's rictus and a name he could've cared less about. He turned each of them over a couple times between his smoky claws, eventually glancing forward to yet another bird. It looked like any old nondescript sparrow-sized thing, barring the misting of red on its face and chest like some we're-down-to-the-last-victim schlock-horror cannibal villain. Viscount raised himself to full smoky height, looming over the tiny house finch.

"You call this blackmail?"

The house finch shrugged. "Were nae briefed by ther Interior on what specific they may've meant with that'n ye. All the Consul'ere's ken of ye's the sparse snippets've ol' A-Very Aspirant thought fit ter dole us-"

"A very aspirant what?" sighed Viscount.

"nowt but a bird joke. And to the quick," the finch rolled its shoulders, "a little one Interior had he ken more what all we us pages got, t'the dawn of all this sorrow." There was a vague quality to its drawl, anyone but the Viscount might've noticed it was calming, placating, even.

"Oh?"

"Called you Capnostic."

"Oh." Oh. He glanced about the nook, counting the vague avian shapes perched up in the dark near the cargo hold ceiling. One of them squawked something unprintable; the gyrfalcon laughed a delicate trill that made you feel like a mouse just hearing it.

"That man, what he were, didnae want to share the truth of ye. Righteous types in there-" he jerked his head back toward the mannequin "- feared ye. A beast partakin' of memories? Kah, memories is all we be, so it be fortunate we've proffer in great supply." The finch took a few hops forward, which was really more an inconvenience for Viscount having to stare down instead of ahead. "We hear ye be a discerning kind of monster, no glutton, very specific tastes ye've got. If ye can divulge what matter of the mind ye hunger for, Parliament here'd be welcoming."

It was tempting. There were easily hundreds, perhaps thousands of souls trapped in the mannequin, a self-sustaining mesh of reminders and recollections. They knew what Viscount was; must have figured he only ate a specific subset of memories. Were this the Controller's machinations, he'd jump on the chance to find out more from the jailbirds, but the smoke monster couldn't help but feel he was being sized up.

"The man of those coins," interrupted the finch, gesturing to where they whirled about in Viscount's midsection. "He said ye ate memories, but not which. Called ye paranoid too, 'bove all else he could've appellated."

"He called you lot disorganised," retorted Viscount, before realising that, yeah, he had called them disorganised. "Barely noticed this idiot had gotten himself killed, either."

"T'was our doing, back on the..." it seemed hesitant, tripping over an unfamiliar concept. "Star. Star port."

"Why?"

"Did we kill him?"

"Yes."

"Ah'm... nae sure, meself. Were nae briefed on it before talking to ye."

So this wooden doll had plots of its own; sent a lackey out to speak to him. "And why did you lot choose to talk to me?"

"Kah, that one they drilled in me. We seek mutual benefit. Coalition, if a loose one. We ken there's wee reason to trust us or accept what we offer ye, but 'tis as ye said. Th' warlock, man, whatever he be, he's lit strange in what he sees or won't." The finch glanced toward the ceiling. "Our 'vigilante', to quote the introduction. Same blindnesses. Same sights."

Viscount's mind raced. How much did they know? Were they somehow the Apprentice's plant? Or maybe, had that greenhorn grabbed something without even knowing the full of its abilities? Best wait for this rabble to either tip its hand, or not, which would be conspicuous incongruous in its own way.

They already knew one thing he didn’t want spread, and considering he’d gone a whole round without his coin no trouble, their literal token of goodwill didn’t amount to much either…