"I'll be back."—The Terminator

(Bastion's POV)

The day before—

Sparky cringed as old Dawson belted out an off pitch rendition of Achy Breaky Heart, his voice overpowering the radio as they cruised down the tree-lined country road. The old man's belly pressed tightly against the steering wheel, his short arms straining to reach it. To the right, the lake shone brightly, waves rippling softly to the shore. 

Dawson sighed, turning to look at it. "The lake is calling my name," he said longingly. "One of these days I'll be able to spend a whole day out there. Just me, a cooler of beer, and my lucky pole."

Dawson's veterinary clinic was set in the small village of Detour, a ferry town situated by the lake, up the road a few miles. The pick-up truck puttered past a few old houses, an antique shop, and an ice cream parlor. Finally, it turned sharply onto a gravel road, causing a series of sharp pings as small rocks hit the truck's metal sides.

"Here we are little fella," Dawson said, beaming down at Sparky who sat inside an open shoe box on the passenger seat.

The old man squeezed himself out from behind the steering wheel. He leaned over to pick up the box with a grunt, causing Sparky to dig his nails into the cardboard to steady himself.

"We'll fix that wing up good as new," Dawson said, wheezing as he fumbling through a large ring of keys. "Now which one is it? I always forget."

 Sparky stomped his foot impatiently, his dark eyes gleaming from inside the box. Good lord, old man! Hurry up and get this over with. People's lives are on the line as we speak!

The little bird's feathers ruffled as a large gray cat sashayed from out of nowhere and weaved itself around Dawson's legs, purring.

"Well, hello there, Clementine!" Dawson cooed down at the cat, momentarily forgetting the keys in his hands. "Are you looking for your dinner?"

The cat meowed sweetly, but her yellow eyes fastened on Sparky, who's head peeked out from the box. I will take whatever I can from you, old fool, she projected, her tail curling like a snake around his leg.

"You're a sweet little girl, Cleme," Dawson crooned, reached down to pet her head. 

Clementine rubbed against his hand, arching her back dramatically, a strong purr rolling from her lips. Dawson straightened, then smiled as he found the key.

Well, aren't you a fine pet, Sparky projected dryly down at the manipulative feline. Her eyes shone like pennies as she glared up at him. All but his head was hidden inside the shoe box. She licked her lips, her whiskers twitching.

You look like a tasty snack, she hissed softly and turned to lead the way inside the veterinary clinic, her tail twisting up and down in a hypnotizing fashion.

A damp, musty smell clung to the place. They walked past the small waiting room and into the back lab, where Dawson set the box down carefully. He busied himself getting the cat's meal ready before he returned with his set of tools. 

"Let's see what we have here," he said cheerfully, reaching a pudgy hand into the box. Sparky climbed obediently onto his arm.

In a matter of an hour, Dawson had set and taped his wing—all while the conniving cat watched—purring innocently.

"Now you'll need to rest for a while,"Dawson said, opening the door to a back room.

He placed the Sparky in a small metal cage that rested on a dusty counter. "You'll be good as new in no time," he assured him. With a whistle, he walked away, shutting the door behind him.

The room was dark—thick shades drawn over the windows. Sparky peered around the bars of his prison, a tingling of uncertainty creeping up his back. He wasn't alone.

There were other empty cages sitting around the room. One in the far corner stood out. It was a large cage, the kind that could easily hold a parrot. It sat in the darkest part of the room, but Sparky thought he could make out the shadow of a large bird inside. He stared at it fora long time, willing it to move. Finally, he convinced himself it was nothing more than his imagination running wild.

He shivered and sneezed, bringing his bandaged wing closer to his side. It seemed a cold draft had entered the room. For the hundredth time since he'd made the impulsive decision to follow Aria, he cursed himself for being a part of the whole mess. What an embarrassment! Bastion, the mighty spirit, locked in a bird cage. What kind of hell had he put himself in? He could have been enjoying a goblet of fine wine, listening to the fascinating stories of spirits who roamed the earth long ago. But no, he'd let his heart guide him, instead of his rationale mind.

His feet gripping the wooden perch, he willed himself to close his eyes. The sooner he recovered, the sooner he'd be able to get back to Winter.

His eyelids grew heavy, they'd just about shut, when a slight movement in the corner startled him. Straightening, he peered over at the shadow in the large cage. It was as still as before. Cursing to himself, he hunkered down on the perch and turned his head to rest on his wing.

He slept peacefully for a couple of hours. He woke refreshed, feeling rejuvenated—that is, until he took in his surroundings and the last couple of days flooded back into his mind. His eyes traveled back to the looming cage, searching for the shadow. It was no longer there. Damn mind is playing tricks on me. He shook his head, irritated with himself.

Pacing from one end of the cage to the other, he grew increasingly restless with the lack of space to move around.

How long will I be confined to this blasted cage? he thought. Fed up with being jailed, he made his way over to the metal door and pushed it up with his beak—only to have it drop down with a bang as he tried to pull himself through.

Damned useless wings, he seethed.

Something scuttled across the room. Nothing more than a blur—too fast for him to focus. His eyes traveled back to the large cage—again, no shadow.

Who's there?  he projected, his eyes darting around the room.

Silence.

He straightened himself. I said, who's there?

Still nothing.

Someone was definitely there. Perhaps a mouse, too shy to respond to his inquiry. Sighing, he took up pacing again, wondering where the old veterinarian had gone off to. He'd thought for sure he'd be returned back to the resort when his wing was bandaged. Time was wasting. Winter was back at the refuge with the killer. For all he knew, she could be fighting for her life at that very moment.

A cold draft hit his back again, tearing him from his sullen thoughts. He shivered. A distinct rustling sounded from behind him.

He spun around. Nothing.

Speak up!  he projected fiercely. Show yourself if you're not a coward!

Perhaps it was that evil cat, slinking around.

His feathers suddenly felt electrified. They stood on the back of his neck. He turned back around. A yellow eye stared through the bars into the cage.

Sparky squawked, jumping backwards. Recovering quickly, he found his footing, embarrassed by his act of cowardliness.What are you doing here? You filthy slime!

The owl glared back at him through one yellow eye, the other covered by a bandage. What? Did you think that you'd killed me back there in the forest? Did you think it would be that easy?

He marched back and forth in front of the cage, his wings tucked behind him. I'll admit that you move quick, little one. I wasn't expecting to be stabbed in the eye—but I see you didn't get away unscathed either.

The evil one stopped abruptly in the center of the cage, his eye ominous, surveying his opponent's bandaged wing. What a pity...a sparrow who can't fly.

His talons wrapped slowly around the bars of the cage and pulled it forward, inching it towards the edge of the counter. It will give me great pleasure to send you back to the spirit realm.

The door swung open and Dawson squeezed in, flipping on the lights. The owl screeched as the sudden light blinded him. He fell backwards off the counter, sputtering onto the ground. The old man gasped and grabbed his chest momentarily, wheezing loudly as he struggled to catch his breath.

"How in the world did you get out of your cage!" he said.

Recovering, he waddled towards the owl, who struggled to right himself on the floor. He glanced back at Sparky, who peered down at the big bird on the floor, his cage teetering on the edge of the counter top.

"I see you've met the second bird I'm tending to." Dawson grunted as he bent to pick up the sputtering owl, his hands narrowly dodging its sharp talons and rigid beak. "This one's not near as tame as you are. He's a mean thing really. I found him on the way back from the barn the other day. Poor thing, close to blind, he was flailing about, crashing into things. He nearly tore my hand off until he realized I was trying to help him."

He snatched his arm back as the owl grazed it with his talon. The old man stood, shaking his head. "A sad thing, really. Something in the forest got at him and completely ruined his eye. He'll never see out of it again. He's lucky he's got another one."

"There, there. I'm only trying to help you." He reached down again, as slowly as possible, his breath coming in heaves.

The owl suddenly sat very still on the ground.

"There you are," Dawson cooed. "I won't hurt you."

The owl's head swiveled slowly until his eye was trained on the sparrow. Such a shame, he projected darkly from the ground, I liked this old man.

His eye flashed.

No! Sparky slammed himself into the cage, trying to get the old man's attention. No!

It was too late.

Dawson's hands reached down around the still owl and lifted him up. Just as he brought him to his chest, the owl spun around and slashed its talons across his face—tearing his skin. He screamed, dropping the owl and bringing his hands to his face, then gasped as he removed them—covered with blood. Flapping his wings wildly, the owl swooped at him again, this time jabbing at him with its beak.

"Get off!" screamed the old man, his arms flailing. "Get off of me, you nasty thing."

Sparky desperately tried to lift the cage door—to no avail. As a last resort, he slammed himself into the side of the cage, shifting it further off the counter edge until it rocked precariously. With one last push, the cage toppled to the ground, the top separating from the base. The little bird lay miraculously untouched beneath it.

Taking a deep breath, considering it his last, he stepped out from under the cage.

Leave the man alone! he projected boldly. He has nothing to do with this! Here I am, flightless and unprotected. Take it up with me instead!

In front of him, Dawson clutched his chest and his mouth opened wide, gasping for air. The owl hovered in front of him, until he crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

Easy enough, the owl projected, looking down at the still man on the floor. Now it's time to finish what I started.

His head spun around—one yellow eye focused on Sparky, who was desperately making his way towards the door. In a flash he was on him, closing in with his sharp talons open, ready to strike.

Good riddance earth, Sparky thought to himself, closing his eyes.

A loud hiss—then a screech.

Something tousled over him and landed with a thud at his side.

He opened his eyes. A whirlwind of fur and feathers erupted before him. The cat attacking expertly with teeth and claws, the evil one countering with sheer rage and fury.

Realizing his opportunity, the little bird turned and hopped as quickly as his legs would carry him out of the doorway and through the little clinic. With all his strength, he flapped his only wing to get himself towards an open window.

The evil one, still struggling with the cat, managed to keep on his tail, snapping his beak rapidly, missing him by mere centimeters. The air from his pumping wings ruffled the little birds feathers as he desperately tried to dodge the attacks. With a last ditch effort, he dove off the windowsill into the darkness, hoping to find safety on the other side.