Spinning
around a bit too quickly, Ensign Sebastian Balin wobbled on his feet. His eyes
locked onto a hysterical Kent Wheelock and the ridiculous scene in the bed of
the old militia truck. Tears rolled down Kent’s right cheek while he unseeingly
stared beyond the gathering of onlookers and he absently petted a dead falcon.
Hopping around in the truck bed next to Kent was a second falcon that
occasionally used its beak to nudge the dead one’s head. Finally, a tuxedo cat
with half-closed eyelids, lay sprawled out in the truck bed, watching the
falcon’s grief dance. Though his mouth dropped open, Balin’s eyes narrowed. Approaching
cautiously, Balin attempted to use his body to block the view of the truck bed.
Even over Kent’s laughter, Balin could hear the not-so-soft whispers of the
retirees.
“That boy’s
got two birds.”
“Reckon he’s a
baby Bard?”
