"Dmitri is a potatoe. He potats in his room," said a certain blonde to himself, opening his third pack of Oreos and staring at the only sentence written in his learning journal, complete with an artful splash of coffee on the cover, courtesy of a bad morning.

Just a week ago, Dmitri was envisioning the month of his life. 'Yo it's essentially a holiday,' was what he'd claimed back then, eyes lit up like Christmas lights befitting for the occasion that had so evidently arrived earlier than expected.

A curious sparrow had called him out right then and there in the dining hall, nibbling on his waffle fries. 'What do you think makes a holiday a holiday? Does the staying-at-home-ness make holidays the way they are? But people travel on holidays. Why do they do that? For a good time I suppose. Or, well, to escape from whatever isn't a holiday to them. Then... is staying at home a good time for you, Dmitri? Does it make a good enough escape?'

No valid, sound claim or conclusion in the history of arguments was ever made over a dinner table and this was no exception. He had insisted back then that everything was going to be great as long as he got to laze around in bed.

Simply put, he was wrong.

The falcon had spent the first week of the island's bird flu pandemic completing a quarter's worth of his arithmetic homework, a third of French, a fifth of flight theory and a pinch of island history—and could therefore conclude that he hadn't completed a single thing on his to-do list. Except 'make memes'. That, he'd done four times. A day.

Needless to say, Dmitri couldn't possibly be writing this in his learning journal, a stellar replacement for homeroom classes that all of Winged were obligated to complete. One entry had to written per day to preferably describe their home-based, quarantine-style, learning experience. At this, a single word would come to his bean-filled, Oreo-stuffed, bedridden mind: potat.

Spelt like that.

This all would have been perfectly fine had his homeroom teacher been something like his prey Kipa's—some well-mannered, bespectacled widowbird who wasn't the raging demon that Professor Faustes Quint was. Unfortunately, the latter was what he'd ended up with and the mere thought of handing in his coffee-splattered, potatoe masterpiece was enough to send shivers running down his fragile spine.

At once, he sought the help of his fellow Winged.

"Hey Luci?" Dmitri popped out onto the balcony and called across the balustrade to his neighbour, Lucienne Deveraux. Who did not appear. "I know you're there, your window's open. Please stop ignoring me because I really, truly need your help this time round."

Moments later, he was greeted with the rare sight of a harpy eagle. She'd emerged from her room, arms folded, hair up in a messy bun and tortoiseshell glasses atop her nose. "Oh my god Dmitri. What is it?"

"Um, the journal?" The falcon held up his tattered copy, sheepish. "I need some inspiration. There's nothing to write. I've done nothing but come up with memes and half-assed my way through assignments this whole week. Mostly memes though. What did you write?"

Both Luci and her Avian's eyes narrowed into a slit as they squinted at what appeared to be a potato standing on the balcony across hers. "Well that's your problem, no?" She slid a packet of mint Oreos out of her pocket and proceeded to tear open the packaging. "And you really think Faustes is going to read it? Something like a... diary by 'little shits'?"

Ah, enlightenment. It was not an often occurrence for Dmitri Ford, except in the presence of people like Iolani Tori and his all-knowing crush standing right in front of him in her pyjamas.

His face turned into one of awe; eyes the shade of wonder as he envisioned the words 'seen' marked in red at the bottom of every diary page—no, at the very end of the journal, which, well, wouldn't have quite made the difference since his current page count was a grand total of one. Thoroughly relieved, he thanked the harpy eagle and offered a packet of original Oreos, to which the latter gave a disapproving shake of her head before throwing a pack of the snack's mint version across.

Immensely satisfied with the somewhat flawless, smoothie-smooth interaction he'd meant to experience at least once a day with his eagle neighbour, Dmitri withdrew from the balcony. He then crafted the next sentence of his journal entry, describing the spectacular state of things. 'His friends are also potatoes potating in their rooms.' A smirk of contentment crossed his features.

"Dmitri?"

He heard the faint calling of his name through open windows and popped his head out onto the balcony for a glimpse. It was his other neighbour. Jeremiah Reyes.

"Jerry-o!" The falcon waved. His Avian had had enough of human interaction for the day and thus decided to remain in her nest. "What's up?"

"I'm thinking of ordering something for lunch," his neighbour was not wearing a shirt, twirling a pen in his hand and holding up what looked like an order sheet. "Jollybee's. But I'm five credits short to free delivery. You want anything?"

"Chicken burger," Dmitri beamed nearly at once before pausing for a good second or two, dealing with a short malfunction of his brain. "Wait. Hold up, do you... have you ever wondered where they get their chicken from?"

"No, not really," said the kite rather frankly, glancing down at his order sheet and flipping it over. The other side was blank. "Why...?"

"Oh, uh. Nah, just... think I'll get the beef instead. TLC it is."

Mildly surprised, Jeremiah halted the twirling of his pen and exchanged a look with his Avian beside him. "This is new."

"What is?" Dmitri looked up from his learning journal, trying not to stare at the extremely toned, deliciously tanned, shirtless torso of his neighbour.

"You've never thought about things like that. Let alone made decisions off them," the kite marked out their items on the order sheet before handing it to his Avian, who took off without delay. "I've seen you have chicken tenders for lunch in the past. Have you been spending time with Tori ag—"

"Ahbabhbhabhab we're not going there," Dmitri's hand shot up for a timely conversational pause, then carefully presented his masterful coffee-stained journal. "I need inspiration for this. How do you describe a lazy, but fulfilling afternoon of memes?"

The kite snorted, reaching past the door to his balcony and retrieving the journal that was on his desk. "Take it." He flung his copy across and Dmitri executed the perfect, panikkd catch.

"WoOah. Thanks man!" He said, immediately flipping it open and giving the entries a hasty skim. "Homemade meals all week? Wow. And you even got a schedule for your assignments? Daily workout routine? You're kidding. I mean it explains how you... look like that, but..."

Jeremiah only laughed, squaring his shoulders and pouring himself a glass of water. In truth, he'd filled his learning journal with a handpicked, quality selection of ripened lies. He was extremely skilled at doing so, packaging words in a way that gave others the perfect impression of himself, or the him that he wanted others to regard him as. It was a prime skill in his day and age, living under the roof of the Pyramid.

Not a chance was he going to follow an actual homework schedule with all that noise next door; homemade meals once a day were the most effort he'd ever put into food but was unfortunately necessary considering his desire to maintain his otherwise 'god-like' build. The daily workout routine was the only thing he'd been determined enough to follow through.

Admittedly, however, he'd been slightly more than put-off by the occasional dragging of heavy objects across the floor and dull, rhythmic banging coming from the room next door. Had this been some fault of Dmitri Ford's homely adventures, Jeremiah would have dubbed normal and forgiven in a heartbeat but alas, the source of the noise was most definitely the room of a certain friendless vulture—extremely quiet and otherwise soundless for the past eighteen months they'd been adjacent to one another.

Under tragic circumstances, Vaughn had taken to the ultimate activity of rearranging old furniture that would either grant a dashing new look to his apartment or, just, well, emphasise his complete lack of entertainment. Not to mention, an inability to convince himself that his best and most comfortable state was alone, in the darkness.

According to stellar records of his past, the vulture was most certainly quite very sure that being alone in his dark and dungeon-like room was his natural thriving habitat. While this had likely been the case ever since his mother rose up the ranks to become the island's dictator, Vaughn had been sufficiently self-aware to see a gradual change in the stunning evil that he once was.

As far as he could tell, 'stunning' was no longer part of the equation. Appropriately evil... or perhaps aptly. Suitably? Sufficiently? Selectively evil? These words he'd written on the blank section of his To Do blackboard, having crossed out every other checkbox that was the entire list of his stay-home assignments. That, he'd completed in less than one and a half days. Thirty-four hours and twenty-nine minutes, to be exact.

Unlike everyone else, Vaughn was a professional at completing and submitting his homework on time or perhaps even days before the stipulated deadline. At present however, the sheer monstrosity of his professionalism was now beginning to feel like a double-edged sword, having cleared his path of rose bushes and stumbled upon a magnificent castle that was, alas, full of sleeping fools and a stupid sleeping princess so all that was left for him to do was sit and stare into space and allow thoughts of darkness to creep in and out of his cage until the final, grand arrival of a newfound enemy—

Boredom.

The very name of the kingdom he'd so unfortunately stumbled upon and found so oddly distasteful in the presence of loneliness; that he had nothing to do was indeed severely troubling and so the vulture had taken to penning down a brand-new list of entertaining activities to complete. This, he had been checking off the past couple of days.

The intention was to recreate every spicy dish he'd had in his eighteen years of living—kimchi, tteokbokki or spicy rice cakes, kimchijeon, kimchi fried rice and why was he stating every Korean dish his step-brother would pamper him with on special (and non-special) occasions? There were... other favourites he was familiar with. That spicy beef stew made by his phoenix friend for the Christmas party he'd hosted last winter. The Japanese vegetable curry Io had popped by to share a portion of after spending an afternoon with Jiro in Slayne's room down the hall last week.

Other ideas included re-ordering his collection of Christmas music and getting back into contemporary dance or spending half the day sifting through the same shopping catalogue for a well-deserved room makeover... or perhaps even dye his hair some colour other than grey. The vulture promptly slapped himself awake at the final thought, absolutely appalled that he'd even think of such an absurd suggestion. It would've ruined his painstaking reputation of villainy! Absolutely out of the question. Grey, he must. He must grey.

"Eve?"

Vaughn had been so lost in his own thoughts of darkness and evil that he hadn't noticed the front door or the additional presence of another human being in his apartment after a week's worth of being alone. His Avian, Nox, had been so startled by the sound that she'd made a break for the window that was, uh, unfortunately closed. She stumbled, falling to the floor with a gentle thud. Her Winged pretended not to be feeling the throbbing pain in his forehead.

"Jae. Viktor. You—what are you doing?"

The condor laughed shortly, placing a cooler bag on the kitchen counter. "Checking on my precious little brother. Who may have collapsed from a lack of social interaction?" He'd teased before beckoning to the younger male.

"Your intrusion is kindly pardoned by the owner of this room," quipped Vaughn, reluctantly leaving the comfort of his couch and drawing towards the kitchen. No regrets came out of this act however, because he was at once greeted with an array of spicy Korean side dishes packed in airtight boxes.

"Vultures are, by nature, social. Eve." Jae-min flashed a disarming smile over his shoulder whilst transferring the boxes of homemade food from the cooler bag into Vaughn's refrigerator. He then paused—turning once more just to confirm that his eyes were, indeed, in perfect condition.

It was the oversized pullover he'd gifted months ago.

"Someone said he'd never appreciate something as naïve as 'pastel pink' on himself... change of mind?"

"Don't start," the vulture established at once, quietly pleased with the abundant boxes of food he could now savour instead of... other things, unwilling to stray from an otherwise emotionless conversation within his zone of comfort. "I made a list of things to do and one of them just so happened to be 'wear something different every day.' Imagine myself out in broad daylight, clad in an oversized, blush pink piece of clothing. I'd lose my reputation as an honourable villain! It would be tragic. I'd never wear something like this to class."

"... next time, I'm getting you the fluffy kind. With hearts all over it. Or worse."

*

For as long as he could consciously and willingly remember, Luka Sullivan had been a lone wanderer of the path he walked. His most concrete, vivid memory went only as far as building a makeshift ladder out of scrap wood and rope for his nightly companion. He'd been frequenting the treehouse alone long before Io had come along, staring up at the night skies unaware that the very presence above—the soft glow of a great lunar eye—would soon manifest in the form of a tiny being much shorter, much smaller than himself.

Before, he'd always been alone. Before. The very term that seemed to be the sum of everything that he'd kept locked away in a box under his bed, labelled and sealed away for perhaps the rest of after.

Luka Sullivan, the once very definition of singular; of alone; of apart, now stood in front of the mirror in his bathroom, brushing his teeth and staring at the sink usually occupied by a certain sparrow friend and was now functioning as a tool to prop his sparrow plushie against. So that it would stand.

"Mhorninhg," he said aloud.

The word lingered in the form of a quiet reverb in the otherwise empty bathroom, lonely without the usual sparrow-like chirp that would bless the entire space on every other morning.

"Did you dream last night?" Io would have asked in the middle of splashing water on his face. "What was it about?"

"You." He would have said.

And by the time the eagle could register the slipping of sanity from the bars of his cage and that he had, for the past two minutes of teeth-brushing, been having a projected conversation between him and Io with himself in the mirror, the vanity top was littered in drops of toothpaste foam.

Alas, he came to terms with the truth.

For all intents and purposes, Luka Sullivan, who had always been alone, was now unable to stand the thought of not being surrounded by sparrows and perhaps other birds alike. He'd caught himself wondering how Vaughn Alekseyev down the hall was doing and if a loneliness-expert like the vulture would be kind enough to perhaps provide some good advice on dealing with the stay-home measures. Then his thoughts drifted to Shri and if she had been shopping for more stuffed toys like the one she'd gifted him for Christmas. The soft, inanimate sparrow was by no means a decent substitute for the unmatched fluffiness and worldly intellect that Iolani Tori was but it was the only thing he could rely on for soothing company.

Notice how he had not included his Avian in the category of 'soothing company'. Victoria herself had taken to screeching at the balcony, perched on the balustrade and hollering for the presence of her tiny companion. Once, her Winged had decided to have his breakfast out on the garden chair on his balcony and upon settling down, had greeted her aloud.

Greeted her. Not in his head, but aloud. Reality was wrong on two levels and Victoria had done a double take, falling off the ledge before regaining her balance mid-air and swooping up with a single beat of her wings.

Luka had not appeared to notice the very strangeness of this incident and had continued to casually finish the rest of his ham and cucumber sandwich. Which wasn't very tasty. Even though all Io had to do was put sliced cucumbers between two slices of bread. Best breakfast, hands down.

Across him was a certain quiet phoenix, who, herself, was as familiar with the notion of loneliness as the golden eagle was. Her first reaction upon observing Victoria falling off her perch was to laugh. And then very quietly stop and clear her throat, mildly embarrassed.

Jing was the most surprising out of the lot. Seven days into the quarantine and not one—not a single assignment completed. In fact, she hadn't even started.

She could now see a clearer picture of the role of distractions (be it the class or her duties as the supposed head of the student body, ranked at the top of the Pyramid) in her life. Even the noise around her, often involving either Cai or Zijun or perhaps the both of them, together, played a significant role in keeping her mind away from the terrors of flames and barren lands.

Alone was when she could fall easy. Deeper. Down. The dark.

Sending an Avian back and forth like everyone else was doing would have meant the need to write and that was too much effort for the girl who on days like these could not be bothered to part from her bed or the clothes she slept in. Only ever since she'd seen that little escapade of Victoria's that she all of a sudden found entertainment in people watching at her balcony. Which was... strictly speaking, an invasion of their privacy. W-was it? Did they not know they could be seen?

Then she felt guilty and wondered if there was anything else to do apart from people watching people who weren't herself until she noticed someone waving a piece of clothing in the distance. At her? No, it couldn't be. No one would be waving at her, for sure... and from the prey's dormitories. It was a window, not a balcony.

Blonde hair, oddly short enough so that only her head could be seen from the—was that...? She was waving her bra. That was a bra. Who was that?

*

While the rest of the world were struggling to cope with their empiricist minds longing for the freedom and enchantment of the external world or a taste of the fresh outdoors, Iolani Tori was a professional, expert hermit in a cave—seated on the floor, facing a nice little wall. Once every three days, Jiro would return to their shared room and tap him on the shoulder to ask if he would like to order something from the pigeon delivery service that prey were finally allowed to use over the course of the stay-home measures. The nightingale had pleaded with the authorities to be allowed access into Slayne's room during the month-long period. With more than half the class of hearts backing him up, he was fortunately given the green—which meant that unlike the rest of prey who were mostly social and had the comfort of their roommates, Io... did not.

It wasn't so much that the boy liked or was in any way alright with being alone or, well, the notion of loneliness. Being an expert or a professional at it didn't necessarily mean that he was, by definition, fond of the idea.

Long known and understood by Io was the fact that humans (and not just sparrows) were, essentially, social creatures. It could very well be that some people liked being alone or that they were perfectly fine with isolation and being apart but how else was one to evade the enemy that was boredom?

Do we not take to other means like reading—a form of social interaction between that of the writer and the reader, for should the writer not understand the concept of a mind beyond their own, would never be able to put pen to paper?—or drawing or watching or playing or music, all, in some way or another, crafted, created by some involvement of another existence beyond that of our own?

Essentially, human beings were part of a web so necessarily, intricately weaved in the form of crossed paths that connected one to the other and knowing this, Io found no great philosophical realization that many of his fellow humans appeared to arrive at after spending a week entirely alone, within four walls.

He was oddly at peace.

Predator and prey were strictly forbidden to meet in the form of Avians, and so the only people he'd been in contact with were Pipa, Nash, Vijay and Jiro. The canary had the one to suggest a 'window lunch', arranging a stipulated timing by Avian so that all five of them would gather at their windows with their food and eat in distant silence. Nash was a floor above Io and sometimes, the latter would mistake the crystals of salt sprinkling down on him for solidified, tiny raindrops.

They also realized that Pipa had the habit of waving something, anything to catch their attention since she was the window furthest away from them. Today, it was her bra.

_______________________

A/N: Hello my Stars! There must be less than 10 of you reading this, but I'm extremely warmed to be writing. I've missed my birds. Unfortunately, no one really seems to be reading this anymore and I've, naturally, reconsidered my options of when I should be continuing this...

It is a dilemma. I know that delaying this book would mean that many of you would no longer be reading it by the time I actually get back to writing it and finishing it. And at the same time, I no longer find it in myself to immerse myself once more... not because I no longer feel for the book, I do! I really do. It is, still, my magnum opus. I only fear the disparity. I mean, realistically, there must be an interpreter, a witness, a reader for there to be a writer—or so I have come to believe. Without interpretation, a sentence is a sentence. It is nothing more than words. For words to become an emotion; for them to manifest in reality and in the minds and hearts of those beyond me is the reason I have chosen to write.

I'm here to let you know that I haven't given up! Not just yet.

If you've been wondering where I have been, most of my energy goes to writing a book about culinary students titled 'Vanilla'. I'm not sure when, but I'll definitely be back.

Thank you for waiting. If you still are.

-Cuppie.

_____________________

[Extra]

Faustes Quint was not having a good time. Sex was an essential part of his life and while his students were most definitely somewhere on the spectrum of 'deprived', he, unfortunately, was on the extreme end of it. After all, the lockdown certainly made clear the category of human beings he so happened to fall under.

Forced to spend a week apart from a certain widowbird, he'd gone a week without pleasure and while, yes yes, spending time with Callaghan was, *cough*, important and seeing him was *cough* enough, but sex.

I NEED FUCK

He was dying. And amidst his death-inducing quarantine, sent ridiculous Avians to his lover such as the above. Callaghan had nearly passed out upon reading such senseless demands. You also need English lessons. He'd written back. All Faustes did was have his attention narrowed in to a single word.

... also? ;)