#ohnyxx

The first thing that you do is the first thing you always do when you are running from a threat to your life: as soon as the door is open, you kick off from the ground with force just shy of denting the floorboards, aiming to fling yourself over the edge of the porch and into open air where you can maneuver freely. 

In the execution of this move, you fail to account for many things. 

You lunge forward. The ball of your foot presses into the floor, and you realize that the level of strength is different - you have to push a little harder. You adjust, eyes narrowing, feeling for the moment of satisfaction where you are balanced perfectly on that one point, every ounce of pressure focused such that it will propel you cleanly in one direction. You feel it build; you aim through the open door to the bird-free side, launch yourself with all your strength, and slam right through the porch rail with all the grace of a cannonball. 

In the instant that follows, you realize that you are a massive dumbass. That might sting more than the shower of wood splinters following you down. You have no idea when the last time you got flung through solid wood was. You cannot even tell if it scraped against you hard enough to matter. You also have no time to worry about it before you remember that you did achieve your dumbass goal, and now you are freefalling through open air with only a few feet left to go.

It is as if in slow motion that you, twisting Kalrin’s upper body around in a desperate attempt to control how you land, see the precise moment when the Phoenix locks its eyes onto you. 

Then you hit the ground. 

….

….

….

Awareness comes back in like a smash cut from a black screen. 

You wake up with your eyes already open. Everything hurts. The sky is wide, feathery white, dipping and folding and wavering above you. There is a siren-wail in the air that is making your ears ring even through the unbelievable pressure in them. Searing pain rips through every part of you, blistering and boiling and you feel like your skin is splitting open, like the strands of your muscles will wither and snap from the heat. Your skin feels like it is on fire. Your ribcage feels like it is burning up from the inside out. Your head feels like it has been split open and set on fire. 

It occurs to you that your head actually was split open, and most of you is currently on fire. 

The smell of the smoke and the crackling sound of flame finally fades in around you. It occurs to you that you have lit everything that you landed on, on fire. Something glossy and sharp flashes into your field of view. You successfully identify it as the beak of the phoenix, parted just barely for the release of a seemingly-never-ending scream. It tilts its head to eye your supine form.

Well, you hadn’t said it in those exact words. Should you have been more specific? Was that not implied? It probably wouldn’t have mattered, given that you explicitly told them not to get a fucking concussion, and there is no way that is not the literal, actual first thing they did.

You feel cold and wrong. The tension in your body has ratcheted up, but it feels like a vice – it holds you in place, unnaturally still. The basic movements of life are smothered out. You try to suck in a breath and you don’t. You swallow but you don’t. Nothing happens. 

You dig your nails into your palms. That works. It doesn’t hurt right. It doesn’t snap you to attention like it’s supposed to. 

Well, that tracks. Of course it feels different to be an ambush predator, you think, trying not to linger on how much you feel like a prey animal.

Okay. Focus. Okay. 

The Phoenix lands. It is some distance away from them, at least the length of a solid sprint. Your heart sinks even as you put together the pieces of how this is going to go. It isn’t just going for them, which means it’s going to make some threat display, and then it’s going to make their life hell. 

At least it isn't just going to kill them. You’d be fucked if it had.

Not that you're any less fucked after they concussed themself plowing through your fucking porch railing. You cannot even begin to comprehend what kind of move that was supposed to be. Was it a jump? You mean, yeah, that sure was a jump. Undeniably half marks for technically executing it. But even you usually at least try to stick the landing. 

What the fuck were they even trying to do?

Seething with exasperation that does not properly cover your growing apprehension, you spin on one foot and you sprint for the kitchen. Your balance is off. Everything about being in their body is off. You can’t go out there and fight like you’re supposed to; you don’t know how to use it.

Your body will come back. This body will not. And you can’t do what you usually do here. You can’t afford to get them killed. 

Unfortunately, if they die without making it off that cliff, it is simply not going to matter.

Distraction. You need a distraction. You could try your room, but you think maybe you have one stashed in the top cupboards. He’s still there, you think, surely. You certainly don’t remember that fucker atoning for his sins.

You crawl onto the counters, swearing violently when you nearly slip off, and grab onto the side of your rightmost kitchen cabinet. It lurches a little, like you’ve yanked a nail out somewhere. That's probably fine. And then you prop yourself up on your knees, pulling open the doors and squinting inside. 

Empty chip bags, metal pan lids, safety scissors, unsafety scissors. A few bright plastic pencil holders of minutiae. You check the top shelf; it is a deadly labyrinth of mismatched Tupperware containers. You don't remember getting most of them. You suspect they may simply grow inside of unoccupied cabinets, like mold.

You don’t see him, however. 

Fuck, wrong cabinets. Did he move? No, you just forgot which ones you put him in. You just forgot. Probably.

You don’t think he can move. You’ve never seen him do it. But you can't rule it out.

You try the next one over. He's not there either. You don't try the third cabinet, because you know that's where you keep the dirt. That and the tent. You don't know why you picked it up on a whim; it’s not like you can go camping. The bird fucking hates tents. 

You consider the pros and cons of trying to use the tent instead. It could work, maybe. Send that fucker sailing and the reaction would probably be the same. But you suspect you’ll need the audio component – you can’t very well shout without giving yourself away – and one glance out the window tells you that it is not windy enough. Not for a sure bet. 

Besides, you don't want dirt on your stove right now. You don't open that cabinet for a reason.

You kick your toaster out of the outlet and crawl across the counter, hands and knees pounding in the grim march of stubborn perseverance. Kitchenware clatters to the floor around you. You are making a complete mess. It is a pleasantly new kind of mess – your dimensions are not the same, and your weight changes your speed. Different things are within reach at different times. It feels more like barreling than it does like scrambling. This is how you really figure out how to move, you think. You’ll have to experiment with how things go in a fat and stocky body.

You lurch up on your knees again and toss the cabinets open. Nothing on the bottom shelf. Grunting, you push yourself to your feet, sticking your head in through the doors, and–

There! 

There he is, a few doors down. His candy red fur, his glossy dead eyes. His gaping, mocking smile. The light does not touch him directly. Even just the sight of his face in the dark sends a chill up your spine. 

For a moment you waver. Some things not even you should trifle with. But – no, Ohnyxx needs you. Your house and life are on the line.

You grab that fucker by the throat and you drag him out from behind the oversize plates. They came with the house. You never use them. You squeeze his throat and you put a finger to his open mouth to preempt his evil whispers.

“DO NOT FUCK THIS UP FOR US,” you tell him. “I WILL PUT YOU BACK IN THERE. I AM NOT JOKING. YES, IT’S ME, I’M SURE YOU CAN TELL.”

He stares past you and does not make a sound.

“DO NOT FUCK THIS UP,” you repeat. “SERIOUSLY. I MAY KID ABOUT A GREAT MANY THINGS BUT I KID YOU NOT RIGHT NOW. I HAVE NO INTEREST IN YOUR TRICKS AND THE AMOUNT OF BULLFUCKERY I WILL TOLERATE COMES TO A GRAND TOTAL OF ZERO. THIS IS NOT A TRANSACTION AND YOU SHALL KEEP YOUR WRETCHED LITTLE MAW AS QUIET AS THE SHALLOW GRAVE I WOULD OTHERWISE PUT YOU IN, BECAUSE FAILING ALL ELSE, I WILL SEND YOU BACK INTO THE DEPTHS OF KITCHEN SOLITARY AND LEAVE YOU THERE, FOREVER UNABLE TO ROT. KAPICE?”

He does not say anything. You choose to take this as compliance rather than him biding his time, on account of how yours is running out. 

You pull your head back out of the cupboards and find that you are floating.

Just, casually. You had lifted off the counter to reach further back. Now you’re just suspended on nothing, with the small, furry body of a horror in your arms. 

Your eyes dart to him incredulously. There’s no way. There’s no way, right?

Wait, no. 

“OHNYXX WHAT THE FUCK,” you shout, staring down at your bent, unsupported knees. 

They don't answer, of course. On account of being busy getting their ass murdered out there. 

Okay. Okay! So Ohnyxx can fucking levitate. You wrack your brain for what this means for your options.

A crazed semblance of a terrible plan emerges from the dark and watery depths of your mind. You don't give yourself time to second guess it. Instead you fly to the window, scanning the field to see what is happening, and then kick your way over to the dislocated door.

You grab onto the sparse remains of your splintered porch railing, hard. They really did blow through that fucking thing at full force, you think, fondly. What a moron. Then again, could a moron execute something so beautiful? Could a moron birth such a catastrophic headbutt attack? Perhaps this is only the domain of a true moron. A moron is one who sees the gates of beauty and shoves with all their breathtaking, desperate might, and completely fails to register that it is a pull door. 

Still, that has to smart. Your body is going to have so many fucking splinters for the next minute and a half, or however long it takes them to die. You hate shrapnel more than anything else; sometimes the skin heals first and it gets stuck in you for hours. At least they don't have to deal with it long enough to process the fact that they're itchy. 

Wait, was this what they were going for? Did they forget that you can’t fly? 

Nevermind. They are a complete moron.

You take a deep breath. Ohnyxx is on their feet. The bird is chasing them, seeking to punish them for their wrongdoings. They’re doing better than you expected, all things considered. It looks almost comical from the outside. 

That won't last. They aren’t going to make it. They haven't done this before. You have no idea if the shock will incapacitate them if they get speared through. The first true perforation, you think, is when the fight always begins to end. Even though you can heal it away.

Unbidden, you glance down at the little red body in your hand. He hangs limp. Mercifully quiet. 

You never thought you would say goodbye to him. It might be a dereliction of duty to let him loose like this, you think. After all, if killing him were possible, you would have long since obliterated this giggly little fuck. Keeping him trapped on this mortal coil is all you can do. 

But it’s Ohnyxx. And it is also your house. Sacrifices must be made.

You bring him up to be eye level with your face. He stares out past you. 

“I WILL FORGIVE YOU IF YOU PULL THIS OFF,” you lie. 

You squeeze him tightly in your fingers. You obligingly scritch him under the arms. And then you bring your arm back, and you hurl the dark patron, TICKLE ME ELMO, high, high into the sky.

His horrible laughter begins belatedly, as it always does. He is far out of your reach by the time he begins to contort and wiggle and laugh. It is a hideous sound. It is his death warrant, you think, but he can’t resist his nature. He never could.

The bird’s head snaps around immediately. Its beak gapes in a silent howl of outrage. You can see it tracking him through the air, watching him sail up and up, his laugh echoing down faintly into the fields below. Its back and wing feathers are starting to bristle up in warning, the down of its long, serpentine neck lifting in a nearly imperceptible threat.