'The Talon's Roost' was the name the Songbird's had affectionately given the disused ATC tower, when she had made her quarters there shortly after arriving at this garrison. It suited her perfectly, in terms of personal, practical, and symbolic purposes. Above the activity of the main camp, her thoughts were clearer, and every Songbird who looked up, would be instilled with new courage for what was to come, knowing that she was watching over them. It was also the place that had the highest proportion of window space of any room in the entire complex. She had been almost a woman the first time she'd seen sunlight, and since then she had been forced to spend so much of her time scurrying around in the dark. Not right now though. Her time here, and her windows, were a are luxury. A luxury that she owed in no small part to her enemies. It was after all their playthings that she was using to shield herself. She could see one of the pylons right now, it's silhouette concealed to all those who didn't know exactly where to look, within the tree line on the perimeter. This place suited her, and it would be a shame to leave. However, the time was soon approaching, and when it did the window would be short.
Spread out in front her, as she sat cross legged on the floor, was an array of maps, blueprints, reports, charts and photographs. She picked up one of them, taken at the village where they had recovered the stragglers. Why had this child still been in bed at such a late hour? Perhaps she had been sick, although no sign of ailment showed on her face. In fact, she was smiling. The Talon wondered if that was merely a queer side-effect of the start of the decomposition process, or had this girl been having a good dream?
What mattered however, was the certainties; and what was clear all the photographs, the autopsy reports, and the diagrams showing various chemical compositions, was that her enemy's testing was drawing to a close. The substance was ready. The hard work was done, and in a matter of days a generous stockpile would be amassed. The nest was tended; and when the eggs were hatched, The Great Revolution would begin in earnest.
The setting sun bathed the tower in an orange bloom, and in her head The Talon recited a new poem. Each sunset was unique, and deserved its own. She did not waste time searching for paper and a pen, for she never had any intention to write them down. Her thoughts were between her and the sunset, and she would simply let them flow. The brand new verse streamed into her consciousness as if it had been there all the time. Perhaps it had. Even after so many years, The Talon sometimes felt she had barely scratched the surface of her potential, and that there were so many more gifts yet to unlock, given to her unwillingly by those she now sought to destroy. In her own way, she couldn't help but love them. They had given her so much, not least of which being that through them she had first seen the nature of the One Truth. It may have just been the effects of some residual conditioning, but she thought not. Recently, she had begun to wonder if her interpretation of events had been backwards, and it had in fact been the One Truth who had given them to her. Previously, she had understood the One Truth as merely an implicit construct within the fabric of existence, like gravity. Tangible, undeniable, but without any consciousness or will of its own. However, the closer she came, the more of the path that seemed to fall into place in front of her, the more convinced she became of some kind of divine providence. She was not simply a scholar of the One Truth, she was its disciple, it's protege, it's provocateur.
He companion in her vigil gave a weak, rattling groan as the sunlight inside the circular space continued to intensify, and if even the light itself now hurt him. It was not impossible. The Talon remembered when she had first experienced direct contact with the sunlight, bursting through the canopy as she had stumbled into that unlikely oasis at the most crucial time. It had burned, with a brilliant pain. On the other hand, her companion's experience seemed to be different. Her pain had cleansed her, burning away her fear and desperation. His only seemed to make him shrink, like some grey, translucent insect turned out from under a damp log.
Turning to face him, The Talon debated whether it was to her credit, or to his, that the man was still alive. She was an expert in her craft, and yet he showed an unusual resilience. Even after so much had been stripped away, his soul refused to reveal itself. He was suspended in the dead center of the room, chains binding him at his wrists and ankles, which in turn were attached to the joins at the floor and ceiling. Taut, the chains held him vertical, spread-eagled, the light glistening off the bare, raw meat of his torso. He was akin to a fly caught in a spider's web, only the web had been fashioned from his own skin, removed from him in slender strips, leaving one end attached, and pulling the rest out into strands, stretching out in every direction and pinned to all corners of the room. The skin is the largest organ in the human body, and fashioned in this manner, it would have been hard for the uneducated or uninitiated to believe such a maze had been harvested from just one subject. Another gift from her former tormentors. So many ways to remove a man piece by piece. Still, it had taken considerable practice on her part to become so artful. The defter she became, the more clearly the patterns presented themselves.
She lightly tapped her finger on one of the strips, drawn from his groin. Drawn so taught, the vibration traveled back to the angry flesh as if she had plucked a guitar string. A pitiless, rasping cry escaped his lips. Silently, The Talon took a cloth, and submerged it in a bucket full of a purifying solution that kept his wounds from festering. Seeing this, the man made more noises in protest, though having seemingly lost the ability to form words. This was the nature off all his kind. So dirty, stinking, foul, that any attempt to wash them of their bile will sting in agony.
"Do you see it now?" she asked, raising her voice over his fresh screams, as the wet cloth gently found every nook and cranny. "Now that your mask is lifted, and all is laid bare, do you see the disease of it? You are a malignancy, sapping the life out of the world as you cling on past your time. For the sake of all that is or ever will be, this world must be cleansed."
