Its almost a disconnecting thing. To see something glowing, something that seems see through, that seems like it should be hot or like glass or plastic. And yet it feels exactly like room temperature metal.
The power is almost...ridiculously easy to track. Its less an echo, and more a spider web. The power connects to something massive and numerous and distant. Not an uncountable number, but the number would take some time. Some strands were stronger, easier to detect, more present and new, but there is one that is strongest, present, humming loud and present, that sounds like a glitching computer screen.
He is moving through the vents and through the shadows. The alarm is quiet and that makes it easier to track people. Nothing makes noise more then prey that thinks its safe, chattering in their limited meaning sounds.
Then he sees her. There are no shoes. There is no smell of fear. No, the smell is...strange. It smells like the littlest one, the fire and hope, when he-he-
He does something. Something that makes the sweet food.
She smells like that. Not like humans. Not like many things.
She does not belong here. An asset. Moves like a predator. That's fine. He knows he's a predator too, and he has the Connection that makes it easier to herd other predators. She would be a perfect bait-distraction for what is his.
He drops down from the shadows behind her, trilling in warning. Predators don't growl before they attack, only in warning. If she's a smart predator, she won't make it a fight with him. The humans would be far easier to dispatch.
She senses the turtle's presence before they make a move, which is… honestly for the best. A startled Miya is a bad time for everyone on a good day. In a place like this, when the memories of her own time in imprisonment are so close to the surface … Yeah, no. Bad.
The chirp they make is familiar-unfamiliar, not quite like any of the more musical sounds she falls back on when she either can't or doesn't want to use her words. It's a warning, she can tell that much; one that she acknowledges with a tilt of her head. Yes, I hear you. I know you're here. Hello. No, I don't feel threatened by you.
(She wonders, in the back of her mind, what this means. Vocalisations like that speak of fluency, of someone comfortable in their own skin. Is she dealing with a turtle-turtle? A human-turtle? A turtle-human? Both, neither? Time will tell.)
She stands smoothly, and finally turns to face them. They're smaller than she was expecting. Shorter than Kit, she thinks, but with wiry muscle and the bearing of somebody who knows how to use their body as a weapon.
"Hi," she says, following it up with a chirrup of her own. It's a bright, light sound, somewhere between feline and avian and yet distinctly neither. A greeting: Hi, hello, I mean you no harm. "I'm here to help." She lifts a hand, ostensibly to wave, but there is absolutely some human blood still smeared around her sharper-than-average nails. Blood that she wants him to see. It is, perhaps, at odds with her casual yoga pants and t-shirt.
Not scared. A shame, it would be a lot easier to get this other taken to do what he wants if she was scared. He isn't particularly interested in hurting the other taken, but he has things he needs and it would be a lot more convenient if he could herd this one.
He stares at her with an intense, studying gaze. Eyes an unnatural mix of red and blue, though faded behind the nictitating membrane, making it easy to mistake his eyes for pure white. Even more unnatural is the fangs he bares at her, canines more pronounce than a humans, but also turtles just? Don't have teeth?
He tilts his head at the chirrup. Bird. Feline? Feline might be a problem, felines are dangerous, birds less so. He's too big for birds. Not a little one, not easy prey to be scooped up, not when he can have his own wings.
His eyes are drawn to the blood. Less surprising. Any other taken would be aggressive naturally. They should be. The takers deserve it.
His eyes do pause at the t-shirt. He stares for several long beats and he doesn't know why.
Something about the shirt.
It reminds him of the little one protector. Its even the color he likes. Something about it is...
Amusing.
It gets a huff that isn't quite a laugh, but its something.
Oooh, so the shirt got a reaction? It was even almost a laugh, which means this turtle person knows a pun when they see one. She rumbles softly in amusement — and for all that it is soft, even quiet, it comes with the distinct feeling of big.
"You like it?" She runs the back of her knuckles across the soft fabric with obvious fondness, lips curving up into a fangless smile. The shirt had been a present from Kit after their last Ikea adventure. It'll be a shame if she gets blood all over it, but, well … sometimes things just Happen.
More important right now is trying to communicate her intentions.
She chirrups again, but this time it becomes a song — wordless, no louder than a soft speaking voice, but once again it's so much more. The music forms the shape, the feeling, of outside air and open spaces, of safe places to hide and a warm, comfortable den. "I'm here to help you find safety."
A deliberate pause. She looks pointedly from him to the blood on her nails, to the hallway they stand in and the scattered scraps of his creations. There's a shift in her stance, from relaxed and casual to a hunter prepared to go on the prowl; even her scent shifts subtly, the darker, richer notes of coffee and woodsmoke overtaking the sweet. And then it's back to how it was, like a gear smoothly switched. She inclines her head briefly. Not submission, but an offer.
He tilts his head at the rumble, eyes looking over her, a low, warning growl in his own throat. There is Big. She doesn't look Big. He knows Big, the other protector is Big. She may not be Small, but she is definitely not Big like the other protector.
His eyes follow her knuckles, looks at the shirt. He knows the shape. He likes the shape. The single meaning words are hard when spoken, but the shapes, the shapes he knows. The shapes and means and those are also things he likes. Things he likes and things the little one protector likes. No. Twin. Twin likes, that's right.
He chirps, something a slight bit friendlier. He likes it. He likes, but that's not reason to trust her.
His head perks up at the song, his eyes widening a bit. As the song goes on, he starts to sway to the music, tapping on the floor in tune with it. There is another huff of amusement at the offer of safety and he trills his own tune.
He's not afraid. There's confidence.
Another trill.
He's angry.
He straightens up at the shift in the scent. He knows those scents. Late night bonding with twin, excited little one before eating together. Its strange to see that with such an aggressive stance, frowning deeply at her.
He tilts his head at her last statement and holds his head, just staring at her. A question.
There is some mutual head-tilt action going on here.
Interspecies communication can be difficult enough when you know each other's languages. When you don't? When you're putting the pieces together as best you can, when there's every risk that something is going to get lost in translation? Yeah. Bit of a nightmare. She can tell he's trying to ask her something, but she's not sure exactly what.
So she sings again, still quiet and brief, but with enough focus behind it to get the basic concepts across; pictures painted through music alone. First is a song that sounds like him — and he'll be able to feel that, the exact experience of recognition he'd feel if he saw himself in a mirror. Second is a song that sounds like her … albeit simplified. Very, very, very simplified, like, yes, this is her, and yes, there is far more to her than meets the eye. She acknowledges it, but it isn't important right now.
Third brings those songs together, working in tandem. It's a song of allyship and hunting, of working together to render the humans a non-threat. Towards the end it lifts back up to that song of outside and warm den. They can't stay here.
... All followed by a questioning tilt of the head and a hopeful chirp.
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no subject
The power is almost...ridiculously easy to track. Its less an echo, and more a spider web. The power connects to something massive and numerous and distant. Not an uncountable number, but the number would take some time. Some strands were stronger, easier to detect, more present and new, but there is one that is strongest, present, humming loud and present, that sounds like a glitching computer screen.
He is moving through the vents and through the shadows. The alarm is quiet and that makes it easier to track people. Nothing makes noise more then prey that thinks its safe, chattering in their limited meaning sounds.
Then he sees her. There are no shoes. There is no smell of fear. No, the smell is...strange. It smells like the littlest one, the fire and hope, when he-he-
He does something. Something that makes the sweet food.
She smells like that. Not like humans. Not like many things.
She does not belong here. An asset. Moves like a predator. That's fine. He knows he's a predator too, and he has the Connection that makes it easier to herd other predators. She would be a perfect bait-distraction for what is his.
He drops down from the shadows behind her, trilling in warning. Predators don't growl before they attack, only in warning. If she's a smart predator, she won't make it a fight with him. The humans would be far easier to dispatch.
no subject
She senses the turtle's presence before they make a move, which is… honestly for the best. A startled Miya is a bad time for everyone on a good day. In a place like this, when the memories of her own time in imprisonment are so close to the surface … Yeah, no. Bad.
The chirp they make is familiar-unfamiliar, not quite like any of the more musical sounds she falls back on when she either can't or doesn't want to use her words. It's a warning, she can tell that much; one that she acknowledges with a tilt of her head. Yes, I hear you. I know you're here. Hello. No, I don't feel threatened by you.
(She wonders, in the back of her mind, what this means. Vocalisations like that speak of fluency, of someone comfortable in their own skin. Is she dealing with a turtle-turtle? A human-turtle? A turtle-human? Both, neither? Time will tell.)
She stands smoothly, and finally turns to face them. They're smaller than she was expecting. Shorter than Kit, she thinks, but with wiry muscle and the bearing of somebody who knows how to use their body as a weapon.
"Hi," she says, following it up with a chirrup of her own. It's a bright, light sound, somewhere between feline and avian and yet distinctly neither. A greeting: Hi, hello, I mean you no harm. "I'm here to help." She lifts a hand, ostensibly to wave, but there is absolutely some human blood still smeared around her sharper-than-average nails. Blood that she wants him to see. It is, perhaps, at odds with her casual yoga pants and t-shirt.
no subject
He stares at her with an intense, studying gaze. Eyes an unnatural mix of red and blue, though faded behind the nictitating membrane, making it easy to mistake his eyes for pure white. Even more unnatural is the fangs he bares at her, canines more pronounce than a humans, but also turtles just? Don't have teeth?
He tilts his head at the chirrup. Bird. Feline? Feline might be a problem, felines are dangerous, birds less so. He's too big for birds. Not a little one, not easy prey to be scooped up, not when he can have his own wings.
His eyes are drawn to the blood. Less surprising. Any other taken would be aggressive naturally. They should be. The takers deserve it.
His eyes do pause at the t-shirt. He stares for several long beats and he doesn't know why.
Something about the shirt.
It reminds him of the little one protector. Its even the color he likes. Something about it is...
Amusing.
It gets a huff that isn't quite a laugh, but its something.
no subject
"You like it?" She runs the back of her knuckles across the soft fabric with obvious fondness, lips curving up into a fangless smile. The shirt had been a present from Kit after their last Ikea adventure. It'll be a shame if she gets blood all over it, but, well … sometimes things just Happen.
More important right now is trying to communicate her intentions.
She chirrups again, but this time it becomes a song — wordless, no louder than a soft speaking voice, but once again it's so much more. The music forms the shape, the feeling, of outside air and open spaces, of safe places to hide and a warm, comfortable den. "I'm here to help you find safety."
A deliberate pause. She looks pointedly from him to the blood on her nails, to the hallway they stand in and the scattered scraps of his creations. There's a shift in her stance, from relaxed and casual to a hunter prepared to go on the prowl; even her scent shifts subtly, the darker, richer notes of coffee and woodsmoke overtaking the sweet. And then it's back to how it was, like a gear smoothly switched. She inclines her head briefly. Not submission, but an offer.
"And to stop the humans."
no subject
His eyes follow her knuckles, looks at the shirt. He knows the shape. He likes the shape. The single meaning words are hard when spoken, but the shapes, the shapes he knows. The shapes and means and those are also things he likes. Things he likes and things the little one protector likes. No. Twin. Twin likes, that's right.
He chirps, something a slight bit friendlier. He likes it. He likes, but that's not reason to trust her.
His head perks up at the song, his eyes widening a bit. As the song goes on, he starts to sway to the music, tapping on the floor in tune with it. There is another huff of amusement at the offer of safety and he trills his own tune.
He's not afraid. There's confidence.
Another trill.
He's angry.
He straightens up at the shift in the scent. He knows those scents. Late night bonding with twin, excited little one before eating together. Its strange to see that with such an aggressive stance, frowning deeply at her.
He tilts his head at her last statement and holds his head, just staring at her. A question.
no subject
Interspecies communication can be difficult enough when you know each other's languages. When you don't? When you're putting the pieces together as best you can, when there's every risk that something is going to get lost in translation? Yeah. Bit of a nightmare. She can tell he's trying to ask her something, but she's not sure exactly what.
So she sings again, still quiet and brief, but with enough focus behind it to get the basic concepts across; pictures painted through music alone. First is a song that sounds like him — and he'll be able to feel that, the exact experience of recognition he'd feel if he saw himself in a mirror. Second is a song that sounds like her … albeit simplified. Very, very, very simplified, like, yes, this is her, and yes, there is far more to her than meets the eye. She acknowledges it, but it isn't important right now.
Third brings those songs together, working in tandem. It's a song of allyship and hunting, of working together to render the humans a non-threat. Towards the end it lifts back up to that song of outside and warm den. They can't stay here.
... All followed by a questioning tilt of the head and a hopeful chirp.