Migration Patterns — A Dust of the Arena Prequel: Part 2

The Journal Entries of Mortimer Anhingas

October 3rd,

We stole the eggs last night.

Thankfully, we escaped mostly unscathed. The ganders did wake up, and I have a rather nasty bite on my leg, and Iris is still picking out feathers from her hair, but we did it. We got the eggs.

Unfortunately, most of them are infertile and rotten. Only two of the fifteen had chicks, and from the growth difference, I don’t think one of them is going to survive. So much for my experiment.

But they are in one of the incubators I borrowed from the science department, and I’m hoping to save one gosling out of the batch. 

When Iris and I checked on them this morning, there seemed to be quite an outrage among the geese. The nest was trampled, and the molting birds are almost finished. They’ll probably migrate within the next week, hopefully back to their normal course in the States. One can only hope…

I did have a… small run in with an old foe. Why George Creaves insists on sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong– namely, my business– is beyond me. He’s horridly juvenile for someone who will probably be graduating next to me.

He’d caught me carrying the eggs into my dorm to check on them and set up the incubator. Demanded to know what was inside. I was terribly tempted to throw one I knew was rotting at his head, but I just told him it was an experiment I had and that he probably had better things to do than mess with me.

He had the audacity to change the subject and ask if Iris had anyone to go with to the autumn senior soiree– one of the many ridiculous, student-impressed traditions I’ve never understood. Schools, especially ones like Billington, are for learning, not for dances and parties.

“How should I know?” I’d snapped, and then retreated to the safety of my dorm. There being an odd number of fellows always worked in my favor at this school. By assignment, I’m the only one with a dorm to myself.

I wish I could say George was the first to ask Iris to the soiree, but he is not. She told me four have asked her so far. She told them she had other plans.

What those plans are, I don’t know. I just know I won’t be going. That’s just asking for me to make a fool of myself. Being six-one is great until it comes to dancing, or walking in general. I’m not the most graceful of people on the best of days. 

The two remaining eggs are in the incubator. I’ll have to ask Iris to check my work, but I think they will hatch– if they will hatch– in a week.

I’d better get back to classwork. I don’t mind mathematics, but must they make the font on the sheets so small? People might find the large print in this journal ridiculous, but at least it doesn’t strain my eye. I’ve only got one good one left, the optic nerve in my left one atrophied a long time ago. The iris being solid gray now is a little cool, although it’s not like I can see it half the time with how often I’m wearing sunglasses.

I can’t complain about the sheets. With so much being digital, getting a paper waiver for the sake of my eyesight was hard enough. But even two points larger would help…

I made the joke to Iris the other day that instead of glasses, I should get a very strong monocle. Maybe I should actually look more into that.

Anyway, off to mathematics.

~Mortimer Anhingas

***

The Mental Observations of Iris Gray

October 3rd

Most of Mor and I’s classes are separate this year, but we do both get the same study hour. Today, we’re spending it in the back of the library, where the light sneaks through the bookshelves where it can and is wonderfully cozy and dark in the corners. Our favorite spot at this hour– the Encyclopedia collection of volumes over a hundred years old– has the perfect patch of sunlight for me and a dark corner for Mor. He’s so tall that sitting down, his foot taps against the opposite shelves, and he’s deep into highlighting his notes.

I’m on a tablet, scrolling through news articles searching for ideas for my social studies paper. The news is blowing up, but oddly, not about international relations like it usually is.

Something to do with rogue genetics…

My brows furrow.

“Hey, Mor, look at this.”

He looks up from his notes, tries to squint over my shoulder at the tablet, then grunts, “You’re gonna have to read it for me, I can’t see a thing on screens, remember?”

“Right. Sorry.” I click on the featured article. “‘News reports are coming in from across the world about a surge of people featuring strange and dangerous abilities. Witnesses reported seeing a 14 year old set a school bus on fire with just their hands in a fit of rage’…” My jaw drops. “There’s no way this is real.”

Mortimer blinks several times, thinking. “‘Strange and dangerous abilities’… what on earth is that even supposed to mean?”

“There’s a video.” I click on it, watching as a teenager, arguing with an older man, throws her hands in the air. All at once, the water in the fountain behind her surges out and swamps him, leaving him sputtering on the pavement and the girl pale with shock, staring at her hands.

“This has got to be AI,” I mutter.

“AI-generated videos in the news?” Mor sounds dubious.

“It’s happened before. I can prove it.” I pull open the AI-scanner app on my tablet, dragging the video link into its analyzer.

The screen loads, and a little green button blinks on. Gen-AI coding not found. Content is original.

I stare at the button.

“Iris?”

“The AI crawler says it’s legit.” I shake my head. “There’s no way it’s legit.”

Mor shrugs. “We live in strange times. I’ve heard many rumors about things seen. Pegasi appearing in the wilds of Iceland and Canada among feral horse herds. Dragon-like creatures in the South Pacific island. One man backpacking in Mongolian who ended up with several second-degree burns swore he had to fight off a phoenix on the plateau.”

“And you believe all of that?” I ask.

“I never said I believed it,” he says, sounding miffed. “I’m saying I’ve heard it. More so than I have in past years. It just makes one curious as to why.”

“Yeah, but… people with superpowers? Really? What is this, Marvel?” I scroll through the articles. “Maybe they’re just testing to see how stupid we really are…”

If nothing else, for peoples’ safety I hope this isn’t true. There’s pictures and videos of these people causing massive destruction. Most– no, all of them– are teenagers not much younger than us.

And every one of them seems absolutely terrified.

I turn off the tablet. “I think I’ll have to find another source for my social studies paper. There’s no way I’m getting anything legitimate from this.”

“Go more local,” Mortimer suggests. “Pick up the town newspaper, or go to the next city and pick one up there. Most of your classmates will be using online sources anyway.”

“True.” I glance at the time and stand up. “Study hour is almost over. You want to go find a newspaper after classes?”

He hesitates for a second as he pulls on his hat and picks up his sunglasses. “As much as I dislike going out on sunny days, I unfortunately do need more sunscreen.” He packs his stuff into his bag. “I mean, it’s not as bad here as back home. At least half the fall here is stormy.”

“Fall back home on the tundra is about three weeks of splendid sunset colors before we’re pitched into darkness until almost March,” I snort. 

“Hm, are you suggesting I should move to the tundra?” he asks, a glint in his eye.

I shrug. “Do you like freezing cold temperatures, long winters, really big and dangerous animals, and weird sunlight hours?”

“I like geese,” he says. “And you have lots of geese.”

“In the summer.”

“And when it’s not summer, it’s dark.” He nods. “Sounds like the perfect place.”

“Not a lot of people either,” I quip. “You’d have to live like a hermit.”

He grins. “There’s you. That’s enough for me.”

I blush. And upon recalculating his words, Mor’s face reddens with embarrassment, suddenly looking a bit panicked as he turns away, rubbing his face. 

SAY something, Iris!

But my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“I uh… I have to get to my next class… chemistry… or… something…” he stumbles out of the alcove. “See you later.”

He scurries out and I smack my temples, growling.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Now you’ve scared him off.

Oh, Mor…

It’s the same thing every year, isn’t it?

Why can’t I just… speak?

I sigh, hauling the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

The mental image of going out to the tundra, just Mor and I, appears bright and vivid in my mind.

I smile.

Just you would be enough for me too, Mor.

I just wish I could actually tell you that.