[open] a cat's a cat for all that
Iris Fortner is in distress. Of course, this isn't unusual, what with the metric fuckton of fail that living with the Fuchizakis drops on her on a near-daily basis. But this isn't that kind of distress, nor is it the kind that comes with snowstorms and blackouts and other strange manifestations of the Rift. No, this is almost entirely mundane; at least, as far as Chicago goes.
See, she's heading to her shift in the Kashtta, and being that this is the Kashtta, she sees absolutely no reason not to have her wings out. Unfortunately, this has caused the Tower's compliment of teleporting kittens-- well, we did say almost entirely mundane-- to peg her as a giant walking cat toy. They're pouncing on her wings, wrrr-wrrring with excitement and biting and clawing at the feathers. A number of them are actively dangling from her, their claws finding great traction in all that fluff. She isn't happy.
"Stop that!" she protests, shaking her wings and brushing frantically with her hands at her many feline attackers. "Get off! You're ruining my feathers!"
Later, she's at a gym somewhere downtown, checking out the equipment and looking disappointed. There are weights for training your biceps and your triceps and even machines for running or cycling, but nothing to help her improve her flight stamina. See, this is the side effect of not having supernatural visibility in Chicago, she thinks. A girl can't even find a place to work out her wings.
And then one of the staff walks by, and she's engaging him in passionate conversation about the need for wing machines. The poor guy, quite obviously, does not have a clue. The girl's clearly crazy. But she sounds terribly sincere.
And later yet, when the night's set in and people's breaths have turned to white ghost-clouds against the chill midwinter air, Iris is dancing. She's dancing to her own imagined tune, out in the woods of Grant Park, holding up a candle as she slowly turns. Her wings are out, paper wraiths among the shadows, shivering with the cold. It's a bad night to be out, but she wants to celebrate. She's whole, at long last. And nothing can take that away.
Even if cats have tried.
See, she's heading to her shift in the Kashtta, and being that this is the Kashtta, she sees absolutely no reason not to have her wings out. Unfortunately, this has caused the Tower's compliment of teleporting kittens-- well, we did say almost entirely mundane-- to peg her as a giant walking cat toy. They're pouncing on her wings, wrrr-wrrring with excitement and biting and clawing at the feathers. A number of them are actively dangling from her, their claws finding great traction in all that fluff. She isn't happy.
"Stop that!" she protests, shaking her wings and brushing frantically with her hands at her many feline attackers. "Get off! You're ruining my feathers!"
Later, she's at a gym somewhere downtown, checking out the equipment and looking disappointed. There are weights for training your biceps and your triceps and even machines for running or cycling, but nothing to help her improve her flight stamina. See, this is the side effect of not having supernatural visibility in Chicago, she thinks. A girl can't even find a place to work out her wings.
And then one of the staff walks by, and she's engaging him in passionate conversation about the need for wing machines. The poor guy, quite obviously, does not have a clue. The girl's clearly crazy. But she sounds terribly sincere.
And later yet, when the night's set in and people's breaths have turned to white ghost-clouds against the chill midwinter air, Iris is dancing. She's dancing to her own imagined tune, out in the woods of Grant Park, holding up a candle as she slowly turns. Her wings are out, paper wraiths among the shadows, shivering with the cold. It's a bad night to be out, but she wants to celebrate. She's whole, at long last. And nothing can take that away.
Even if cats have tried.