Little Bird Going Home

M1zushi: i’ve added little 💬 that are from the JJWXC’s in-text comments (kinda of like wattpad?)

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Life had taught the veteran resilience, tolerance, and optimism, but it hadn’t taught him how to face tenderness.

“The rain, it’s really coming down hard, isn’t it?”

The Stump Bird was nervous. Afraid of revealing any undignified emotions, he bit his lip hard, trapping his ragged breathing in his throat.

He could barely breathe…

“Your breathing doesn’t sound right.” Mr. D inquired with concern.

“Oh, it’s because of the rainy day, the atmospheric pressure is lower. Breathing does take a bit more effort than usual.” The Stump Bird was immensely grateful for his past experiences; they allowed him to lie without missing a beat.

Mr. D said, “Your hands are very cold.”

The Stump Bird stammered out another lie: “I had some ice-cold beer right before I came.”

He tried his best to lift his tone at the end, as if the very act of drinking beer could prove a person’s life wasn’t so destitute.

But Mr. D took off his glove, placed it in the Stump Bird’s cold palm, and at the same time took the medal:

“Let’s trade.”

Lambskin gloves were a rare imported luxury in this chaotic world, their value far exceeding the Stump Bird’s asking price for the medal.

An exchange of items, rather than directly giving money, silently preserving another’s dignity.

The Stump Bird tightly clutched the glove, and the warmth of the leather slowly transferred to him. Those calluses, worn down by war and weapons, seemed touched by the warmth, becoming slightly softer.

But his fingers were swollen; he couldn’t put it on.💬

Mr. D: “Tomorrow is May. Spring will be over, it should start getting warmer.”

“Is that so?” the Stump Bird replied.

It was May, and the weather should warm up. People on the street would don thin clothing, but he, wrapped in an unseasonal leather jacket, would still be cold to the marrow,  his blood and limbs numb with cold.

Mr. D and everyone else on the street would gradually move towards summer, while he seemed forever stuck in winter.

He couldn’t go much further.

The sky grew dim. Passersby stared oddly at a middle-aged, disabled man with his head down, wiping his tears. The whole world could see it, except for the man on the platform.

Yet the Stump Bird felt thankful for this.

This was best. Not being able to see was for the best.

Between him and Mr. D, distance created beauty. If the distance became zero, and they truly saw each other’s faces, they might only manage a forced smile, silently swallowing the words they intended to say.

He was so broken. If Mr. D could see, it would only leave an unpleasant memory.

The Stump Bird knew very well they weren’t suited, that there was no possibility. So, feigning nonchalance, he urged Mr. D:

“Don’t wait any longer. The person you’re waiting for is already gone.”

Mr. D asked calmly, “What did he look like?”

The Stump Bird struggled to describe him: “The kind of young, handsome omega, worthy of… worthy of that flowerpot you’re holding.”

But Mr. D asked, “Do you like flowers?”

The Stump Bird did like them. What little bird wouldn’t love flowers and plants? Even this old bird with ragged feathers and a broken leg was the same.

“No, sir. I’ve never liked flowers. I wouldn’t even recognize what kind you’ve brought.”

With every word he emphasized, another piece of his heart rotted away.

“You should go quickly. Standing here in your wool coat, you’ll soon be targeted by gangs for robbery.”

Mr. D turned, fumbling as he placed the flowerpot on a seat on the platform. The bench was plastered with gaudy, obscene illegal ads. When the pot was set down, the unopened buds trembled slightly, as if in protest.

The Stump Bird’s eyes widened: “What are you doing?”

“Leaving it here. Maybe that person will come back for it after he’s finished with his business.”

The Stump Bird croaked hoarsely, “He’s not coming.”

Mr. D lifted his eyes, seeming to look his way. “Do you want it?”

“I don’t.”

To prove his resolve, the Stump Bird limped away. The sound of his wooden leg tapping on the ground grew fainter, weak but rhythmic—always two beats, a pause, then two more thumps, another pause…

Mr. D closed his eyes and imagined it: thump, thump, pause, thump, thump, pause.

He suddenly realized that it was the old veteran turning back every two steps, reluctant to part, gazing at him.

The veteran wanted the flower, but didn’t dare go back for it.

Leaning on his cane, Mr. D retreated step by step from the platform, moving further away. Behind him, traffic clamored, passersby wandered, but the merman’s ear could clearly distinguish the sound of that wooden leg striking the ground. It was urgent and suppressed, practically lunging towards the station, snatching the flowerpot right from under the noses of a crowd of curious, predatory onlookers.

Just like an old stray dog, waiting until the feeder leaves before cautiously returning to grab the bone.

Mr. D found the image a bit amusing. 💬

He had initially thought this meeting would end with the other’s avoidance. But he hadn’t expected the old dog, bone in mouth, to come panting and puffing, discover his trail, and come panting and puffing up to him, suddenly linking arms with him.

The Stump Bird panted heavily, his chest churning with inexplicable emotions. In his left hand he carried the flower, and his right arm linked with the love he couldn’t have. Satisfied and happy, he said:

“You’re such a good man. Since the person you were waiting for didn’t show, how about coming back with me for a cup of tea? Consider it a favor to my business.”

Mr. D paused. This reaction was unexpected, yet understandable. People with mental health issues often acted like this, with their emotions fluctuating wildly and becoming pitifully neurotic.

He thought for a moment, then asked, “Besides selling medals, what other business do you have?”

Stump Bird answered proudly: “Lots. I do demolition, I’ve fought octopuses, I scavenge junk, repair appliances, sell balloons, sell bottled water—I can do anything. My leg’s broken, but I still have my hands, I can still fly. I earn my keep by working; I haven’t brought shame to my history.”

Mr. D was curious. How could there be such a person, despairing yet hopeful, like a flower struggling to grow from the dust with every ounce of courage, contradictory and tragic.

“I can do anything,” Stump Bird emphasized, lowering his voice with unpolished sales pitch techniques. “You must be feeling down since your person didn’t show. I can relieve you. Cheaper than others, and my place is clean.”

Mr. D was silent for a moment, saying nothing.

The Stump Bird lowered his voice further, adding with a chuckle: “Oh, and since I happen to be missing a leg, I’ll give you a thirty-percent discount.”

What kind of madman describes missing a leg as “happening to”?

Out of pity, Mr. D took out his wallet.

The Stump Bird happily took the money, bought back the chessboard for five credits, and bought jasmine for fifteen. Walking down the street, he even softly hummed a tune.

He hadn’t been this happy in a very, very long time.

The Stump Bird knew that a good man like Mr. D wouldn’t have the heart to refuse him. He, a thorough scoundrel, was using a blind man’s kindness like this, selfishly taking something.

Mr. D had given him gloves; he had given his medal.

Mr. D had given him a flower; he had to give something in return.

Whether the other wanted it or not, he insisted on giving. He was a man who grew up in the era of Izu Paraiso; in his values, you never let a good man leave empty-handed and disappointed.

Beyond that, the Stump Bird harbored a secret longing. He had never known what it felt like to be intimate with someone he had feelings for.

The Stump Bird held Mr. D’s hand, his heart and eyes full of anticipation. But as they entered the basement, the musty smell that hit him was like a slap in the face.

Smelling that scent of approaching decay, remembering his own withered, broken body, he couldn’t help but worry.

… He was sick, no longer young. If his heart stopped during the act and he collapsed on Mr. D, the man would surely feel guilty.

So, the Stump Bird chose a safer method.

On the dirty floor, his wood leg clattered against the ground. The Stump Bird nervously and hastily found alcohol to wipe his hands, drank two mouthfuls of cold water to force down the taste of blood in his mouth, then, with trembling fingers, unbuckled Mr. D’s belt.

Throughout, he nervously swallowed again and again, terrified the other would notice his lack of skill.

The Stump Bird felt a hand gently stroke his hair. Mr. D asked him quietly, “Is this your first time?”

The Stump Bird said, hoarse and muffled, “Yes… sorry about that.”

Mr. D was silent for a moment, then sighed, “Mine too.”💬

 

The Stump Bird thought he meant that someone as dignified as Mr. D was also doing this kind of thing in such an absurd place for the first time.

What he didn’t know was that this was also Mr. D’s first time being close to anyone.

“I’ll be at the station again tomorrow, still at six in the evening.” Before leaving, Mr. D gave him a second chance.

The Stump Bird looked at the flowerpot on the table, then at the man standing in the backlight, and his nearly withered heart began to beat again.

He murmured inwardly, you’re always so gentle, tolerating me again and again.

But late that night, the Stump Bird’s dwelling was kicked open. A dozen fully armed secret police surrounded him, this broken, thin old veteran, dragging him from his cold bed onto the floor.

An informant had leaked his address.

The captured Stump Bird was calm at first, so calm that the police thought they had the wrong person.

The police kept demanding he reveal his associates, torturing him mercilessly for 17 straight hours. He refused to say anything, only asking from time to time what time it was.

“What time is it?”

“A revolutionary army leader reduced to this state, tsktsk. This is what they call ‘kicking a dog when it’s down’.”

“What time is it?”

“He seems to have gone mad? Take him down and douse him with water a couple times, sober him up.”

An investigator brought in that pot of wild roses, tearing off the leaves and flowers in front of him, dumping out all the soil, trying to find any possible evidence hidden inside.

Pinned to the ground by men, the Stump Bird let out a hoarse cry, reaching out with all his might to grab the thorny stem, stuffing it desperately into his embrace.

The secret police beat him into a concussion. When they threw him into the cell, he was hazy and couldn’t remember much.

But he still remembered he had to keep the appointment, at six in the evening. If he just went, he could break free from this nightmare and reach a place of happiness.💬

He wanted to offer Mr. D some snacks, wanted to kiss Mr. D’s cheek, and wanted… to properly confess his feelings.

And so, the dying veteran, with his withered hands and feet, snatched a guard’s keys and ran out against all odds. On the way, he was shot countless times by automatic rifles in the corridor, yet he seemed oblivious to it all, not pausing for a moment in his flight.

On the big screen in the monitoring room, his face was proudly displayed, bearing a sorrowful yet joyful smile. The secret police were stunned and furious, triggering a city-wide alarm.

[5:17 PM], half an hour left, there’s still time.

He miraculously made it to the tarmac, stole a fighter, and took off unsteadily into the sky.

[5:32 PM], there’s hope. If he could just bypass the control zone, reaching the residential area wouldn’t be a problem. He had done this many times in his youth; he will surely succeed!

To fly there, he had to cross three restricted zones to reach the central residential district. One of his wings was damaged, but he managed to bypass them while spiraling downward. But at the last aerial checkpoint, he was blocked by a dense wall of defense forces prepared in advance.

[5:48 PM], he looked at the sky. It was wrapped in a tightly woven net, stripped of its original purity and wholeness, becoming fragmented and torn.

At that moment, Mr. D was tightly clutching the medal, waiting for him at the station.

[5:52 PM], he suddenly remembered the jasmine in his refrigerator. He was afraid that unnoticed flower would be lonely; he should have left a light on for it.

[6:00 PM], a flurry of alarms sounded on the screen: “Exceeding maximum angle of attack! Stall warning! Stall warning! PULL UP!”

“Beeeeep—” The sound of the flight recorder cut off abruptly, frozen forever at that second.

In the twilight sky above the slums, brilliant fireworks exploded. The fighter crashed into the aerial netting, fragments falling down like shooting stars.

It wasn’t a moth flying into the flame.

It was a bird, desperate to return to its forest, willingly crashing into the electric fence.

Beneath the dusty station, Yu Chen’s dull, lightless eyes witnessed the explosion without awareness.

Some ash fell onto his eyelids.💬

At that time, Yu Chen didn’t realize what had happened. That night, he waited at the station until late. The Stump Bird never showed, and he simply assumed it was just the other avoiding him again.

The giant screens on every building in the empire played the evening news. For that entire week, the screens replayed the image of that crashing fighter over and over.

That day, Yu Chen came to collect the last of Stump Bird’s belongings. As he walked out of the alley, he stopped to watch the screen for a while.

The screen was broadcasting the joyous news of the top fugitive’s death. The anchor and Kaide were both beaming with delight.

“I am happy to inform everyone that the Empire has finally eliminated a major scourge.”

Yu Chen watched with some weariness, turning to leave. But then the screen jumped, showing the fugitive’s final video before death.

It was a surveillance footage, dark, blurry, with an unsettling sense of madness. A bare stem was wedged into his collar. He was covered in blood, barely recognizable as human.

The fugitive’s arms were spread wide, like a struggling bird, flying towards the light at the exit.

Yu Chen remembered that ash that had fallen into his eyes. He suddenly jolted awake from his numbness, realizing that bird would never fly back. 💬

A veteran, clinging to life, finally full of longing and hope, perished before the eyes of his homeland.💬

The merman’s lashes brushed against his eye sockets. A gray-blue pearl fell at his feet, rolling into the filthy sewer of the slums with a soft sound.💬

That night, Yu Chen found his scepter and pressed the nuclear button hidden beneath the palace, taking the entire capital planet with him into their destruction.💬

The entire Interstellar Alliance was stunned. News channels placed the two explosions side by side under the headline: “Two Premeditated Attacks.”

Yet, no one knew, this was merely the same unplanned lovers’ double suicide. 💬