Flight School: Hunter

Real Mask

With the kind of person Dmitri Ford was, Vaughn Alekseyev had always imagined the former's room—well, not that he had the time to sit and wonder about the interior décor of everyone's room, or at least everyone he'd come across, no—to be filled with posters of famous sportsmen; walls characterized by the loud colours of red, blue and white splashed across; hockey stick leaning against the mini-fridge filled with soda; socks littered all over the floor and under the couch; basketball in the corner, completed with the noisiest collection of music blasting over a lavish sound system.

Alas. He was wrong.

"Sit wherever you like," Dmitri gestured vaguely to his room that was void of personality and warmth, sauntering over to his abnormally large refrigerator. "I'll get you something to drink."

Vaughn paused, unable to process the instructions given. 'Sit wherever you like.' He frowned in thought, deciphering the never-before-heard code, intrigued by his first venture into the foreign space of rooms. It did not help that he virgin experience had been skies apart from what rationalized and came up with.

Dmitri's place was far from what he'd anticipated it to be: plain.

The room was characterized by a safe mix of neutral colours and basic shapes, oddly kept and well-maintained by its owner. Nothing seemed to stand out particularly, save the unusual snow globe placed in the middle of the coffee table before the couch. It felt so out of place that Vaughn had assumed it belonged to someone else, more so than the ornament being completely uncharacteristic of a personality like Dmitri Ford.

Vaughn continued to scan the rest of the foreign space, evaluating the 'seatability' of each individual aspect—the couch, the chair, the corner, the counter, he even considered the table! And then, there was the floor.

The choice was obvious.

"Why are you sitting on the floor?" Dmitri had gawked the moment he returned with six cans of beer, three stacked atop one another in both hands.

Vaughn had stared. "I figured it was the least offensive act."

"Sorry to disappoint man but I'm offended," Dmitri snorted, setting the cans of beer in front of his guest—another surprising element as the falcon had never come across as a drinker to Vaughn—before sinking to the floor. "Fine. We'll have it your way."

"I wasn't aware you invited me to drink with you, Ford. Clearly, we're underaged. Where did you get all this?"

Dmitri dismissed his concerns with a wave, cracking open a can. The sound was disproportionately loud in the empty room, and so was the fizzle of gas that followed suit. "Legal drinking age on the island is eighteen, Vaughnny-poo. Drink that shit up unless, uh, you don't know how to drink."

This would not be the vulture's first time tasting the bitter malt. He knew exactly what beer tasted like, but his fondness for it could very well be said to be in the negatives. Without a doubt, he expressed this to Dmitri.

Yet, upon observing the tired nod and slackened shoulders that the latter had given in response, Vaughn could not fathom his abrupt change in heart that made him reach for the nearest can of beer and open it with a skilful tug of the tab. The first sip he'd intended to take turned into a gulp that was unbelievably huge. Even Dmitri had to pause and stare.

"Woah. Slow down." He received a shocking middle finger in return, completely uncharacteristic of the vulture's poised and collected demeanour. Yet, oddly characteristic as well.

It seemed to the pair that neither was being who they thought they were in that instance; and while such circumstances would have brewed discomfort or uncertainty, a fear of the unknown, it instead brought comfort to the creatures in their cages. A show of vulnerability and raw, unfiltered Self—so hardly seen in a world so obsessed with appearances.