Fu Tu re

1: We begin at dusk

The birds are changing.

Forti watched someone nearly kick a pigeon's head.

The bird flapped away at the last minute whereas the stranger was unaware of what they were about to do, frustratingly occupied by a phone call.

When a person approached or a bus came gliding down, the pigeons, sparrows, and sterlings no longer scattered. They only evade right when they're about to be struck or crushed under.

Anyone living in the city would tell you this was normal. It used to be the same for Forti until she saw a tourist "shoo" a pigeon and it didn't startle. Usually, the bird should flinch or walk away, respond with at least an iota of awareness, but it didn't do anything as if there was nothing done, or no one there. And then she realized, this was not normal.

For a couple times within a month, she tried the same to any bird she encountered, waving her arms like she would at a surprise party. Nothing worked. They all maintained their distance and jumped when Forti was too close, and she was almost convinced that the pigeon with the tourist must've been a strange outlier.

But on her seventh attempt, the sterlings did not move.

She crouched down. They didn't strut aside. She lifted a finger, mere centimeters from a beak. It didn't care. Then she tried to pet one, and a flurry of feathers filled her vision.

They flew off.

Did anyone else know what she knew? She discovered the source behind the phenomenon based on her observations, and saw it again, huddled within a grounded flock, glaringly obvious as if it desired to be noticed.

White head, brown neck, and brown-speckled-on-white wings. Among the rabble of street birds, the creature looked out of place, for its raised head and billowy chest bestowed it a regal impression. It was a bird for palace grounds rather than city pavement. With a simple search, the internet said they were pigeons of a different color.

Forti didn't believe that. They came from nowhere, and now they were everywhere. She called them deer doves.

Deer doves are very pretty, thought Forti aimlessly. She pulled her scarf up over her lips and burrowed her hand back into her jacket. How were they doing that? Are they invasive? Where did they come from? An intrusive idea said they came from World 3. No, don't think like that. She chastised herself, but then again, maybe she should practice pretending to think like that. A bloodthirst for otherness was the ticket to getting in where she needed to go, and it helped her ignore the chill saturating through her jeans. The thermoregulation in them broke somehow, but she was wracked with schoolwork and believed there was still time before the cold fully roosted in Solpolis.

As a consequence of underestimating wind speeds and misjudging the seemingly small difference from yesterday's temperature, nature harassed Forti mercilessly. Her legs felt like ice blocks, and the frost creeped up to her stomach through her pants. She learned her lesson as she did every winter.

Not every bird stayed still when a threat appeared, like the lone sparrow Forti was nearing. It was already safely away from her, yet it disappeared, somewhere underneath the sky that looked like static, swarming with soaring vehicles zipping from all cardinal directions. There remained an ample number of normal, wary birds.

But the trait is spreading.

She briskly crossed the street.

What if they don't escape until it's too late? I haven't seen one get hit or stepped on yet, but maybe it's already happening. What if they get lazier and lazier? The birds are in danger–