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Part of my winged Hermann au.
They get their papers a few days after arriving. Their new photographs, blurry and off-colour, the stamp that confirms them as non-contagious. Hermann tucks it into a bag slung over his shoulder, Newt in a pack around his waist, catching on his backplates.
Then, they can go out.
It’s been almost a year since they left Hong Kong, and after months in the quiet English countryside, the bustle of the city is almost overwhelming. One look around and- yes, Hermann can see why the quarantine is not working.
Hardly anyone seems to care, and it’s a mark of how much Hong Kong suffered from Kaiju Blue contamination that there are so many people still walking around. Even those who didn’t show signs must be wondering if it’s only a matter of time.
“Wow.” Newt looks around. Even the Ding-Ding trams are still running. “Um. Wanna see if that German place in Stanley is still open?”
Hermann feels his mouth water. They’d been living off canned food and pasta for weeks and that restaurant makes pig knuckles big enough for four. Newt starts loping towards the bus terminal, but Hermann pauses for a moment, looks up.
There’s a cool wind blowing off the harbour, and the tall buildings turn the breeze into a gale. He flares his wings and hops, once, twice, testing the air. It feels good. “Stay still.”
Newt turns back, “What-” they yelps as Hermann’s taloned feet close around his narrow body. He’s lean and light, although his bad leg aches at the strain, and one downbeat of his wings gets them both aloft.
“What- hey- whoa!” Newt at least has the sense not to fight as Hermann glides easily over the street, banks down the main road and gains height. He catches a good thermal off a building’s heat vent, and they circle up and up, above the tall, narrow buildings, over the thickly wooded slopes carpeting the island.
Newt yells something lost in the slipstream, but Hermann doesn’t care, lost in the exhilaration and raw power of the flight. The route by bus takes two hours around the edges of the island. In moments, they are over the Peak, and clearing the way down to Stanley.
It takes less than fifteen minutes to circle down over the harbour. Hermann comes in low and drops Newt in the middle of the plaza before landing himself, his legs buckle unsteadily and he slumps down on all fours, breathing fast.
A few people are looking at them, but it seems more form the novelty of seeing someone fly that any real interest. There are half a dozen transformed people walking around, and Hermann spots a handful of Buenakai shouting on a street corner, inviting people to come and be infected.
“Wow.” Newt shakes his head, still looking dazed. “That was- yeah. I think we made it into loads of people’s holiday pictures. They were all looking at us on the Peak.”
Hermann stretches his wings, his muscles are aching, but feel good. A solid meal, and he feels he could fly them back. “Ludwig’s is open.” He nods at the pier.
Newt brightens. “Just as well I don’t get airsick.” He bumps into Hermann as they lope over to the restaurant. “Just- a warning next time, okay?”
Hermann smiles. “And miss that look on your face? Never.”
Part of my winged Hermann au.
They get their papers a few days after arriving. Their new photographs, blurry and off-colour, the stamp that confirms them as non-contagious. Hermann tucks it into a bag slung over his shoulder, Newt in a pack around his waist, catching on his backplates.
Then, they can go out.
It’s been almost a year since they left Hong Kong, and after months in the quiet English countryside, the bustle of the city is almost overwhelming. One look around and- yes, Hermann can see why the quarantine is not working.
Hardly anyone seems to care, and it’s a mark of how much Hong Kong suffered from Kaiju Blue contamination that there are so many people still walking around. Even those who didn’t show signs must be wondering if it’s only a matter of time.
“Wow.” Newt looks around. Even the Ding-Ding trams are still running. “Um. Wanna see if that German place in Stanley is still open?”
Hermann feels his mouth water. They’d been living off canned food and pasta for weeks and that restaurant makes pig knuckles big enough for four. Newt starts loping towards the bus terminal, but Hermann pauses for a moment, looks up.
There’s a cool wind blowing off the harbour, and the tall buildings turn the breeze into a gale. He flares his wings and hops, once, twice, testing the air. It feels good. “Stay still.”
Newt turns back, “What-” they yelps as Hermann’s taloned feet close around his narrow body. He’s lean and light, although his bad leg aches at the strain, and one downbeat of his wings gets them both aloft.
“What- hey- whoa!” Newt at least has the sense not to fight as Hermann glides easily over the street, banks down the main road and gains height. He catches a good thermal off a building’s heat vent, and they circle up and up, above the tall, narrow buildings, over the thickly wooded slopes carpeting the island.
Newt yells something lost in the slipstream, but Hermann doesn’t care, lost in the exhilaration and raw power of the flight. The route by bus takes two hours around the edges of the island. In moments, they are over the Peak, and clearing the way down to Stanley.
It takes less than fifteen minutes to circle down over the harbour. Hermann comes in low and drops Newt in the middle of the plaza before landing himself, his legs buckle unsteadily and he slumps down on all fours, breathing fast.
A few people are looking at them, but it seems more form the novelty of seeing someone fly that any real interest. There are half a dozen transformed people walking around, and Hermann spots a handful of Buenakai shouting on a street corner, inviting people to come and be infected.
“Wow.” Newt shakes his head, still looking dazed. “That was- yeah. I think we made it into loads of people’s holiday pictures. They were all looking at us on the Peak.”
Hermann stretches his wings, his muscles are aching, but feel good. A solid meal, and he feels he could fly them back. “Ludwig’s is open.” He nods at the pier.
Newt brightens. “Just as well I don’t get airsick.” He bumps into Hermann as they lope over to the restaurant. “Just- a warning next time, okay?”
Hermann smiles. “And miss that look on your face? Never.”