[ In the shadow of the football bleachers was not Farrah's first choice lunching location. He's still figuring out where is: it needs to be somewhere quiet, somewhere with good light but with shade, outdoors while the weather was still nice enough for it. He thought he'd found a perfect spot near the auditorium where there was a bench and overhang, but a group of locals had crowded around to smoke and talk too loud, so he'd wandered off to the bleachers instead.
They weren't bullying him, not really. There was more an air of impending harassment, as if they were testing out how easy it would be to push him around, what bothered him, and what they could get away with. Farrah had so far succeed in giving them little to go on by casually walking away or pretending he didn't understand what they were saying. Eventually they were going to realize that if he was fluent enough in english to be in advanced classes, then he's fluent enough to insult.
A crow joins him before long. Maybe the same crow he's seen during past lunches, or even the same one he's seen in his yard? The same flock at least, certainly been around enough to associate him with food, since Farrah tosses it a bit of whatever he has when he notices it.
He doesn't greet the bird aloud this time, seeing as he's in the middle of chewing a french fry when he notices it. Instead, he silently reaches into the paper bag with the rest of his food, withdraws a good sized fry, and flicks it in the crow's direction. A fry is probably as good for the bird as it is for him, but that's one solid upside of american schools- he gets to choose what he wants to eat. ]
[ The crow catches the fry in its beak, wolfing it down. Crows didn't have much in the way of tastebuds but hey, a french fry was a french fry.
He wasn't a crow for much longer. Next time Farrah looked away the crow would be gone and Flagg would be sitting in the bleachers a few feet away, crow feathers in his hair. No one else seemed to see him; if anyone passed too close they'd get a chill up their spine but they wouldn't look at him. He didn't want to be seen by anybody else, so he wouldn't be. ]
Now, I know that ignoring 'em is taking the high road, and all, but when one of those pricks finally comes in for the kill I'd suggest a quick punch in the jaw.
[ Like one of those cartoons with a tiny shoulder devil, he was always there to give some bad advice. Unfortunately, there was no shoulder angel to counter any of his points. ]
[ Farrah decides fairly quickly that the stranger is a hallucination. The boy jogging past didn't notice an adult man in full jeanswear sitting on the bleachers, so even if the feathers hadn't been enough of a clue, that could've done it.
Ah well. The most likely explanation is that whatever wires are crossed in his brain that makes him the way he is, has decided to replace the crow with a man. He's probably lucky that it took this long to start messing with his perception. It could be showing him things much worse.]
Wouldn't that- [ He abruptly shifts his volume down to near a whisper, self-conscious and uncertain if he is actually speaking aloud at all.] -risk breaking my hand?
[ Or is that something that happens only in fiction? Farrah takes the container of french fries out of the bag with the rest of his fast-food garbage, and puts it down on the seat nearest to him. He gives a quick nod towards it paired with a glance at the stranger/crow; he's welcome to help himself to them, whatever he is. ]
[ He laughs, loud and hearty, and leans back with his arms behind his head. Despite how loud he is, his presence still goes ignored by everyone else.
He reaches down to take another french fry. ] Only if you do it wrong. You've got to hold your hand like this - [ He makes a fist. ] - With your thumb on the outside. And lead with your knuckles.
[ He mimes throwing a punch, just to demonstrate. ] Or you could wait until your ten-year reunion when you're more successful than all of them, but that's no fun.
[ And most of 'em would be dead by then anyway, but he won't drop that little detail. ]
[ He copies the fist as the man makes it, keeping his hands on his lap so that if anyone notices, hopefully it'll just look like he's got a hand cramp.
A reunion is something he hadn't thought about yet; Farrah makes a disgusted noise to go with his nod of agreement. ]
You are a bird? [ It's a casual ask rather than accusatory or confused. Same as if he as asked, 'Where'd you get that cool jacket?'] Who knows how to punch?
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They weren't bullying him, not really. There was more an air of impending harassment, as if they were testing out how easy it would be to push him around, what bothered him, and what they could get away with. Farrah had so far succeed in giving them little to go on by casually walking away or pretending he didn't understand what they were saying. Eventually they were going to realize that if he was fluent enough in english to be in advanced classes, then he's fluent enough to insult.
A crow joins him before long. Maybe the same crow he's seen during past lunches, or even the same one he's seen in his yard? The same flock at least, certainly been around enough to associate him with food, since Farrah tosses it a bit of whatever he has when he notices it.
He doesn't greet the bird aloud this time, seeing as he's in the middle of chewing a french fry when he notices it. Instead, he silently reaches into the paper bag with the rest of his food, withdraws a good sized fry, and flicks it in the crow's direction. A fry is probably as good for the bird as it is for him, but that's one solid upside of american schools- he gets to choose what he wants to eat. ]
no subject
He wasn't a crow for much longer. Next time Farrah looked away the crow would be gone and Flagg would be sitting in the bleachers a few feet away, crow feathers in his hair. No one else seemed to see him; if anyone passed too close they'd get a chill up their spine but they wouldn't look at him. He didn't want to be seen by anybody else, so he wouldn't be. ]
Now, I know that ignoring 'em is taking the high road, and all, but when one of those pricks finally comes in for the kill I'd suggest a quick punch in the jaw.
[ Like one of those cartoons with a tiny shoulder devil, he was always there to give some bad advice. Unfortunately, there was no shoulder angel to counter any of his points. ]
no subject
Ah well. The most likely explanation is that whatever wires are crossed in his brain that makes him the way he is, has decided to replace the crow with a man. He's probably lucky that it took this long to start messing with his perception. It could be showing him things much worse.]
Wouldn't that- [ He abruptly shifts his volume down to near a whisper, self-conscious and uncertain if he is actually speaking aloud at all.] -risk breaking my hand?
[ Or is that something that happens only in fiction? Farrah takes the container of french fries out of the bag with the rest of his fast-food garbage, and puts it down on the seat nearest to him. He gives a quick nod towards it paired with a glance at the stranger/crow; he's welcome to help himself to them, whatever he is. ]
no subject
He reaches down to take another french fry. ] Only if you do it wrong. You've got to hold your hand like this - [ He makes a fist. ] - With your thumb on the outside. And lead with your knuckles.
[ He mimes throwing a punch, just to demonstrate. ] Or you could wait until your ten-year reunion when you're more successful than all of them, but that's no fun.
[ And most of 'em would be dead by then anyway, but he won't drop that little detail. ]
no subject
A reunion is something he hadn't thought about yet; Farrah makes a disgusted noise to go with his nod of agreement. ]
You are a bird? [ It's a casual ask rather than accusatory or confused. Same as if he as asked, 'Where'd you get that cool jacket?'] Who knows how to punch?
no subject
[ But he isn't a bird, and he isn't a man, so his real identity will have to remain a mystery. ]
But everyone, man or bird, should know how to throw a good punch, don't you think?