BLUEBIRD.

  She watches.

  Voices crackle, fried from hours of recording. Spoken word pops in their confinement, throats cleared to mask the vulnerability. Eyes blink shut longer and longer, drooping with the effort to stay open. Yawns shudder their way through many of her colleagues, both young and old. She swears someone is sleeping while standing up. 

  It has been a long day at the studio, and everyone is showing  w e a r .    Therefore, Azura’s suggestion wasn’t one that many were too surprised by.

  She dons her shades, unwinding the hairband from her wrist after the glasses are perched atop her nose. She twists her hair tightly, forming a ballerina’s bun, tying it firmly to her head. A paperboy cap is placed over the mound, large enough to conceal. A satchel swings on her shoulder. 

  ‘ That would be... One      milk tea, a s’mores      frappuccino, a tall     coffee no sugar no     cream, an apple juice... ’

  Azura checks the order, marking each person’s order with their name. She then turns to the boy behind her, lifting the notepad and pencil she’d hastily scribbled orders on. Her tone is soft. 

  ‘ What about you,     Percy? Is there any-     thing you’d like for     me to grab you? ’

  A haphazard misplacement paves opportunistic roads for accidents aplenty. Whether the binding in a tome unsticks mid-scene or a collection of background items collapses onto the head of a colleague, misfortune is   b o u n d  to happen in a studio so collectively filled day by day.

  Today's mishap? Her Blessed Lance.

  It wasn't unusual for Azura to lose the prop. However tall it was, it had a tendency to become shadowed behind the larger weaponry. Cots for scenes could easily mask its shape, if it was to be dropped beside one, and bookshelves were typically large enough to avoid protrusion of the lance's tip. Even when she had the prop within sight, a single misstep could cause it to fly from her grip, or a lack of energy chipping away the coats of paint as she dragged it across the floor.

  It's why she couldn't blame Marx for a second after he had approached her, apology inherent in his gaze. Her weapon was in both hands, cleaved straight through the middle. Before he could elaborate on its state, she held a finger up to silence him and cleared her throat. A smile hid itself in the corners of her mouth.

  ' Things happen for a     reason. There is no     need to say sorry.

    ...But if you still feel     obligated to, I am partial     to frappuccinos. '

hush. hush.  it is early morning. all is silent, save the  cheep, the peeping, the incessant chirps. a lone baby chick nuzzles its face in a thorny nest. they open their beak, and sing, sing--

they are  b e g g i n g  to be heard.

hush. be still. the curtain opens. she grips the  microphone in cold palms. they are sweating. she is still. she opens her mouth, and  sings, sings--

is anyone listening?