Claws

Recovery

LUKA

"He what?!" My dad screamed at me.
"He...." I gulped, "Ran away."
An incredulous laugh resounded throughout my father's office.
It was situated at the top of the mansion, with a leather loveseat and two arm chairs, complete a matching brown coffee table on one end of the room, and a mammoth, red executive desk with a rolling leather chair on the other side. Behind the desk sat two enormous bookcases decorated with trophies and awards. Scattered around the room were potted plants. Several large windows showed huge swathes of the grounds. My father sat in his rolling chair and I stood on the other side of the cherry-wood desk.
"What even happened?" The older man demanded.
"Well," I sighed, "I guess it's time to let the cat out of the bag."
George's eyebrows rose expectantly.
"He's very hormonal right now. He's in his first rut." I confessed, "We had a misunderstanding and he got so worked up that he flew away."
"Your bird should always be collared when they're in rut or heat." He growled, "Rookie mistake."
A heavy sigh left my dad as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The same hand then went to rake through his hair.
"Did you at least see what direction he went off in?" He questioned.
"He, um...." I stalled.
"Spit it out!" George demanded.
My next words came out in a nervous jumble. "HeflewofftowardsVeridian!"
A gargantuan groan left my father. "He went to the city? For all we know there could be a blood bath there right now!"
It was silent for several long minutes. Eventually, the older man opened a laptop sat in front of him on his desk. The sound of rapid keystrokes filled the room. A few mouse clicks. Then, a young woman reading a news report.
     "A mutilated body has been discovered on the roof of Marylee Inn. Witnesses report that the eyes and left calf were removed and entrails spread around the scene. The deceased's left calf was found fifty feet away, and the eyes have yet to be found. It is truly a horrific sight here tonight."
A click, and the video was gone.
"Dad," I started, "I am so sorry."
"Too little too late, son." The older man returned, "It's time to find him now. And when you get that bird back, you better tan his fuckin' hide, or I will. I want him to be collared for the next month— he needs to learn his place."
     I ignored his demands in favor of my question, "How do you plan on getting him back?"
     "Joan's bird is a good tracker, they'll be able to find him."
     It was silent again. There was a real possibility we wouldn't find him, and then what? My bird would either be apprehended—or murdered— by the police and Blue Moon Ranch's secret would be out, or he would be captured and sold back into the network of facilities created to research and hold captive his species. My imagination started to wander to what would become of my bird if he was caught by anyone other than us.

••••••••••

     Helmet straps bit into my jaw. Kevlar full-body armor covered my torso, legs, and arms. Reinforced combat boots protected my feet and ankles. Armored gloves defended my digits while retaining their dexterity. Most importantly, a heavy, thick neck guard shielded my jugular from clawed or fanged assault. In my hands, a gun loaded with tranquilizer darts.
     George, Joan, and Blizzard were in similar garb—. Blizzard with unarmored wings and holes in the end of her gloves for protracting claws. George and Joan, Blizzard's mistress, were also armed with tranquilizer guns. Joan went without her cane for today's mission.
We all sat strapped into seats of a helicopter gearing up for takeoff just after the sent sank below the horizon. Our pilot was Darnell, a heavily scarred African American man with a missing ear. He was another handler at Blue Moon, and owned an old bird named Fig Newton.
     Darnell raised a hand and put one finger down at a time. Once all his fingers descended the engine of the helicopter roared to life, and I was incredibly grateful for the earplugs he'd provided. Before long, we had liftoff, and the helicopter navigated us towards Veridian at a blazing 160 miles an hour.
I watched as Blizzard rested her head on her mistress' shoulder and closed her eyes. A sharp, shooting pain twisted my heart and smashed it with a sledgehammer as I looked towards the ground with stinging eyes, hoping it wasn't too late for my bird.
The flight felt far too long. Bouncing leg and stomach turning into knots, I watched the Earth pass beneath us as we shot through the sky.
A rough hand landed on my leg to still it. My eyes met my father's, and he mouthed "It will be okay."
My single nod seemed to satiate him and he turned his gaze away, seemingly having his fill of emotional presence. I didn't blame him. After almost two and a half decades of absence, it must have been difficult to try to fit the square shape that was George into the circle-shaped hole that was fatherhood.
     What felt like hours later, skyscrapers peaked over the horizon. Slowly, they approached. Eventually we were suspended over them as the helicopter hovered midair. George gave a "go time" hand signal to Joan, and the middle aged woman tapped on her bird's shoulder, giving a curt nod.
     The white-winged bird seemed too excited to be healthy. She fumbled clumsily with her restraints for a solid minute before they popped off. Almost instinctively, she knelt in front of Joan, who wordlessly fitted a brown-leather bird collar on her. I couldn't help but be jealous of her bird's blind obedience.
     A slap on the shoulder, and Blizzard rocketed up and to the door of the helicopter. Biting wind entered the aircraft as the door was slid open. Without a second thought, Blizzard pressed her wings hard against her armored back, and leapt from the helicopter. The downdraft from the helicopter's blades shot her towards the ground. Once the bird was free of the gust, snow-white wings outstretched and carried her over the city.
     Blizzard flew in figure-eight patterns over and over, and directed herself to different areas in a self-regulating manner. Occasionally Joan radioed her bird to steer her in different directions, and I watched from above as Blizzard immediately complied with all commands. I couldn't help but feel just a little bit jealous of their teamwork.
After an hour of searching, the white bird veered off of her usual figure-eight course. A harsh shock was sent via Joan's remote, but she stayed with her new route. The handler waved to the pilot and motioned for him to follow the bird closely.
     Not long after the detour, Blizzard arrived at a blood-stained roof. She dipped quickly, descending to the concrete roof with a practiced, gentle landing. The bird scurried around the roof frantically, seeming to trace a variety of paths Apollo could have ventured, before ending up at the end of the roof. She paused for a moment. Then, all at once, she jumped, and we were on the move again. Next, Blizzard guided us over the streets. Her movements grew more and more frenzied the further she flew.
     Joan waved to get our attention.
     "We're getting close!" The older woman mouthed to George and I.
     Sure enough, I spied a pair of half-red wings curled up in the corner of a disgusting alleyway. Joan's charge seemed to find him too. Blizzard full-blown tackled Apollo, the two wrestling for dominance, my bird quickly backing down as Darnell guided us to a large rooftop for an impromtu landing. The entire building shook as we touched down, but held fast, even as the engine cut off.
     "Let's get this son of a bitch!" George yelled just as I removed my ear plugs.
     "Let me try to talk him down first!" I bargained.
     "Remember how that went last time?" My father snarled, and I went silent.
      He and I exited the aircraft alone, leaving Joan and Darnell behind. In the distance was the snarling of a particularly riled-up bird and her opponent. My father and I ran to the edge of the building as fast as our legs would carry us.
     The sight in the alleyway below made my stomach do flips. My bird was heavily stained with blood— whether his or his prey's, I had no clue. One ankle was twisted in an unnatural direction. Despite all this, Apollo held his wings high and growled to ward off the frenzied bird that was sent to track him.
     George aimed his gun. A small hand on his shoulder and wave, and he lowered it with a questioning look on his face.
     "I want to do it." I muttered. He seemed to respect the decision.
     From the helicopter, we heard Joan yell into her remote, "Blizzard, OUT!", and in an instant, the white bird sprinted in the opposite direction as Apollo.
     The confused look on his face was followed by an expression of shock and pain when I pulled my trigger. A bright yellow dart stuck out of his chest, a lazy red trickle seeping from it.
     My bird hobbled from the muck to his feet. A few yelping, agonizing steps, and drowsiness overcame him, sending his frame plummeting back to the slime of the alley.
     Blizzard was tasked with dragging Apollo's dead weight up the precipice of the building we landed on. George and I helped her with the use of ropes secured around my bird's chest and hips, and within a few minutes, the three of us were able to lift him out of the muck and onto the roof.
     The white-winged bird collapsed with exhaustion upon joining us. Joan hobbled out of the helicopter and to her charge, giving her a reassuring pat on the back before helping her to her feet as best as she could. The duo supported each other on the short walk back to the aircraft.
     Despite Apollo's supposedly-light frame, George and I struggled to lift his dead weight back into the helicopter. When the task was finally completed, my dad insisted he be restrained on the flight back— just in case he woke up and decided to run again. I offered to bind him myself. Kevlar mitts, a muzzle, earmuffs, blindfold, and bindings between his wrists and knees were all affixed with a guilty heart. A tether in the center of the aircraft connected to the binds on his wrists, effectively keeping him in place mid-flight. Apollo's seemingly-lifeless body stayed by my feet on the metal floor of the aircraft.
"If I have to do this again, I'm not using a tranquilizer-dart gun." George muttered, and I found myself casting my eyes to my lionheart's battered form with shame.
"Earplugs on!" Hollered Darnell, and four of us which were conscious complied without question.
The helicopter's engine roared to life. I couldn't help but find comfort in the fact that the ordeal was almost over.
Flying from Veridian to Blue Moon Ranch seemed infinitely faster than the reverse. Nervousness at returning settled into my bones with a dull ache, and my mind raced as a million miles an hour.
Would news of Apollo's escape get out at the ranch? Did anyone see Blizzard or Apollo in Veridian? Would the murder Apollo committed ever be solved? What if some of the evidence pointed back to Blue Moon Ranch?
I found myself fixating on the damage I had somehow caused between my bird and I. Almost a year had been spent building and nurturing a relationship with the abused lionheart. Had it all been for nothing now?
Apollo stirred beneath my feet, but didn't wake up, as the aircraft touched down on the helicopter pad on the roof of the mansion. We were finally back.
Joan gave a huge sigh of relief as Darnell killed the engine.
"We were lucky he was injured," she started, "otherwise he would have really given Blizzard a run for her money."
"Yeah...." I agreed while unbuckling, "I just wish none of this happened in the first place. I mean, am I really that bad of a handler?"
"No." Joan answered quickly, "You're just too lenient, especially on a bird in rut. You have to really dish out discipline to these birds, or they'll walk all over you."
"Take Blizzard for example," She continued, "she used to be a brat. Nothing a paddle and a good shock collar can't fix."
      Blizzard flushed bright pink at her mistress's statement.
      "Apollo was abused horrifically for a very long time. I don't want to put him through that again." I responded.
     "Then don't abuse him," Joan groaned, "discipline him! All lionhearts need structure and rules to keep a bird like this," she motioned to Blizzard, "from turning into a bird like that." a finger was pointed to the unconscious Apollo.
"That," I spat back angrily, "is an emotionally, physically, and sexually abused bird who is confused and hurting. Beating him won't fix that."
      "Maybe not." Joan growled, "But it will stop him from flying back to Veridian and going on another killing spree."
     At my silence, George chuckled. "She's right, and you know it. Apollo has some wonderful potential that you are squandering by not disciplining him."
     This time, I didn't stick around to respond. Untethering my bird and hoisting him over my shoulder, I exited the helicopter.
      "He could carry him by himself this whole time?" George muttered in disbelief.
      The hundred pounds of dead weight on my shoulder made my legs shake and my skin sweaty, but I was determined not to be a part of the conversation any longer.
      In the dead of night I navigated into the mansion, down the several floors via an elevator, out the front door, down the masonry steps, and a quarter mile to our humble abode. By the time we arrived inside the threshold of our home, it was all I could do to stumble to my bedroom and half place, half drop, Apollo onto my bed.
     It was then that I noticed my next big problem: a left ankle skewed to a disgusting angle. There wasn't much I could do in my new residence except call my dad.
     Unwilling fingers fished my phone from the Kevlar suit I still wore and typed out his number. Two rings later, a gruff "What?" answered.
      "Hey dad," I said as sweetly as I could, "do you know a doctor you can send down here for a house call?"
      "If you would have waited five minutes, he would have fixed that ankle for you at the mansion." George bit back sarcastically.
     "Come on, dad please? I already carried him all the way over here."
     A sigh. An "Alright." A dial tone as the other man hung up on me. Then, a little whimper to my left. Apollo was starting to stir, and it wasn't pretty— he had a history of bad reactions to sedatives.
"Ow, ow, ow...." he whined out in Avic.
     I knew that was as quiet as he would be all night. And I was right: by the time the doctor arrived, Apollo was whimpering and whining and crying out in agony.
     "What happened to him?" A dark-skinned man with locs asked as he entered the bedroom. He wore a white lab coat and a carried a large briefcase.
     "He has bad reactions to sedatives, and was administered a tranquilizing dart." My voice raised so I could be heard over the sound of yowling. "He also has a broken left ankle. Is there any way you can give him some painkillers to take the edge off?"
     "As long as you can restrain him, yes." The doctor muttered just loud enough to hear. "I've heard all about this bird."
      A giant groan from me, and I went to and opened an armoire by the archway. Inside was a set of full restraints, and I went about binding my lionheart for the second time today.
When we was bound at his wrists and knees and muzzled, the doctor hesitantly agreed to work on the bird. The first order of business was giving Apollo intravenous painkillers. With the drugs in his system, the lionheart thrashed less and less, until finally he relaxed into the comfort of the bed.
Even the opioids weren't enough to completely dull the pain of the doctor— Dr. Lawrence, as I had come to find through small talk— setting his ankle. A shrill cry at the grinding sound of broken bones scrapping against each other, followed by some pained whines and the wrapping of fabric around the affected joint. All was still again. A breath that I didn't know I was holding finally left my chest.
"His ankle should be healed within five days." Dr. Lawerence imparted, "Just make sure he stays off of it and is well fed and watered."
"Yes sir," I hummed, "thank you so much for all of your help!"
"No problem Dr. Fryre! It's so nice to have another PhD around." Dr. Lawerence mused.
"Likewise!" I replied blithely, "We should get dinner sometime. Do you have a bird too?"
Dr. Lawerence laughed at the suggestion. "I wish! Too bad I don't have an ounce of handler blood in me."
"You're always free to work with mine!" I offered enthusiastically, "My PhD is in Avian Research. I'd be happy to teach you all about the birds."
"I would like that." He responded genuinely.
"Great!" I felt a little something fluttering in my stomach.
Maybe it was his lab coat, or his locs, his thick beard, or the way he seemed so interested in lionhearts, but he made me feel.... Something, that's for sure.
     Too soon, it was time for him to leave. As I showed Dr. Lawerence out, I got a glimpse of a shiny red ATV under the porch lights.
"Is that yours?" I asked brainlessly.
"Yeah," he laughed at my question, then hummed playfully, "Under different circumstances I would have taken you for a ride on it."
He's fruity!
I giggled at his suggestion. "Another time, then." I hummed.
"Another time." He returned, then added, "Before I leave, could I get your number so we can set up dinner?"
"Yes!" I answered a little too enthusiastically and pulled out my smart phone. A little more sedately, I asked, "I'll text you— What's your number?"
Casually, as if it meant nothing, he gently took the phone out of my hands to type it in himself. The man's fingers brushed against mine, and I felt my heart do a little pitter-patter.
The phone was returned in a manner of seconds, and I heard his phone ding in his coat pocket.
"See you soon, Dr. Fryre." He hummed happily.
"See ya, Dr. Lawerence!" I called back as he walked off towards his ATV.
As I went inside and the door closed behind me, an infectious smile lit up my face.