Flight School: Predator

'I' is not 'Me'

Io was shown a part of the building that he'd never had the chance to see—inaccessible by both the elevator and the main stairs; just a door (that looked quite like every other entrance to someone else's room) and a short, uncarpeted flight of stairs that allowed the predators on the sixth-floor access to the fifth.

"I'm surprised you never asked about the unusually long time that the elevator takes to go from the fourth to sixth-floor," Vaughn said in a clipped tone, chancing a glance at the smaller frame that tailed his back.

Io kept himself rather occupied by surveying his surroundings, craning his neck to examine the ceiling that was abnormally low and gave the impression that it was within reach. He tiptoed.

It wasn't.

"I'm surprised too," he responded as soon as they arrived at another door. This time, it bore a distinct difference from the white-washed doors with gold-plated accents that he had come to be so familiar with. "I've always thought myself to be uncontrollably curious about things. I guess it doesn't always apply."

Vaughn didn't bother to come up with a reply. As always, he found it taxing to distinguish between Io's unfiltered honesty and his occasional bouts of sarcasm; the solution, therefore, was to ignore it all.

The pair came upon a narrow corridor that stretched across several unpainted, unfurnished doors and looked quite as though they hadn't been opened for a very long time. What intrigued the sparrow most was an intimidating, complex-looking lock that drilled its claws into the sides of the door frame, imposing a vice-like grip on whatever that was kept within.

Vaughn paused before the very first, staring at its faded colour as though willing it to bend.

"Aren't we going in," prompted Io by his side, removing the supposed tone of inquiry and replacing it with something akin to a statement. An encouragement to face that which they were about to witness beyond the door.

The vulture turned to him with a brief lowering of his gaze, missing his eyes entirely as though he had not meant to look at him in the first place. He paused before producing, from the pocket of his coat, something that resembled a key.

"Not a word."

Io nodded, unsure as to whether he could keep his promise.

Vaughn raised the key and positioned it for a fit—went in; a turn of his wrist snapping the lock out of place and every consecutive twist, withdrawing its grasp of the frame. It was not until a heavy clank resounded across the empty hallway that the misery of a wait was put to an end.

The door swung inwards without being pushed, a slow and anguished creak characterising its solemn age.

They entered.

And as the vulture stepped aside, allowing his companion's field of vision to clear and witness the strangest sight, he revealed a girl who looked very much their age—appearing to be fast asleep. It reminded Io of a situation so familiar that it was too close for comfort.

The girl was breathing; her chest rising and falling at a pace so slow and serene that he almost thought it still. Something remained attached to the temples of her forehead, and another to her wrist.

Io had never been to a hospital.

Back in the village, everything was treated with herbs and flowers. Emergencies were rare since lorries and vans (never seen many cars, no) were scarce, and even then, they would be forced to drive slowly considering the unevenness of the pavement and the narrow roads. Natural death—of old age and illness—was accepted without a tampering of fate.