Calm; Decay Volume 1: Who Killed Cock Robin?

1 - A Sunny, Gloomy Day - 1

A flock of black-silhouetted birds took to the sky, curling beneath a migration of low-hanging clouds. Ashra Swallow followed the congregation as it passed behind the city's clock tower, reemerging as two coveys in the mid-morning light.

"I should go back," said Ashra, squinting against the brightness.

"Nonsense," said Douglas Swallow, pushing him into the street. The traffic conductor lifted a green flag, inviting throngs of visitors to swarm from the sidewalk while grumbling trolleys waited their turn. All faces pointed to the clock tower, all backs to the bridge behind Ashra and his father.

"I just don't see it raining today, even though they promised it would," said Ashra, similarly facing the sky as they walked. Looking upwards gave Ashra the opportunity to avoid looking at other people without the obvious social surrender of staring at his toes. He did not enjoy looking too closely at strangers, as they too often had a tendency of looking back.

"Then you shouldn't have dressed like it would. You look like enough of a wallflower," said Douglas, ribbing his son.

"Maybe you could give me some pointers? You seem to be setting a standard with those," retorted Ashra, indicating his father's stained and weathered slacks. In truth, both men had more or less forgotten the fashion standards of the world at large. It was only as Ashra took in the shorts and sleeveless shirts of the pedestrians around him that he admitted his conservative charcoal button-up may defeat its own purpose by standing out in the festivities.

Ashra was about to follow up with a second comment, when a commotion at the end of the street interrupted traffic with an explosion of music and confetti. Young women in fluorescent colors threw candy from the bed of a float to children, while one unlucky participant waved to the crowd from inside the mascot costume of an eagle. A team of men pushed the float from behind, visibly less invigorated by the repeating music. There was a round of applause as traffic picked up and the proud eagle paraded past. The crisp white of his wings gleamed in the sunshine, the crown on his head shining a flawless gold to match the sword on his belt.

"What a show, keeping the traditions alive," commented a portly woman at Ashra's side.

At just over six feet tall, Ashra could only watch over the sea of heads as the Roost Tower Square ticked closer to noon in the distance. He wanted to keep walking, but his body remained pinned by the shuffling crowd.

"I could do without the scanty girls," said the woman's similarly proportioned companion.

"You can't keep up with how these younger ones think. Let them be; the centennial anniversary is a special occasion."

One hundred years. It was a long time—long enough that someone like nineteen-year-old Ashra should not have to avoid eye contact with strangers. But today did not celebrate the victories of individuals like Ashra Swallow. As the gleaming crown on the eagle's bald head proclaimed, today was about the selfless heroism that led to others' unfettered celebration.

"Dad, why did we come to this?"

The crowd was loosening, and Ashra picked out the receding chestnut hair of his father from the crowd upon breaking free.

"We came because it's a piece of history, Ashra." He frowned at the withering expression on his son's face. "I know, and I get it, but you'd regret skipping a once in a lifetime opportunity like today. It'll be fun, alright?"

Sensing his father's effort, Ashra stepped into pace beside him, forcing a smile across his thin face. "Only if you're paying."

Douglas Swallow clapped his son on the back as a round of applause broke in front of them. "Keep your wits about you. Remember, if someone starts looking at you strangely, start walking."