( as a miemeng bird, getian is not accustomed to sleeping in a bed. as his mind slowly bobs towards consciousness, he begins to register the discomforts of confining a largely avian creature to such a place for rest: dull cramping in his wings and legs, an ache in his spine, an awkward craning to his neck. strange. all strange. miemeng may be gifted with the ability to read the way others’ pasts inscribe themselves upon the shapes of their bones, but he doesn’t need such an arcane skill to know he’s neither where he should be nor resting in a position that’s right for him.

his mismatched eyes finally flutter open. sunlight as thick as golden honey streams through wide windows, painting his alien surroundings in light and color. he is immediately aware of the beat and melody of muted music coming through the walls, though it’s like nothing he’s ever heard before—it’s an odd sensation for one who has dedicated much of a very long lifetime to song, like attempting to fall into a dance always performed only to find that one’s partner follows the steps of something completely different.

as soon as the reverie of sleep is shed from his mind, it all becomes immediately alarming. nothing of it is safe and familiar, and so it must be the human world. why is he here? he tries to move, to get out of the bed he’s been lying in, but the movement is strange and awkward. getian is lucky he’s on the bottom bunk of this bed—it means he doesn’t have fall to far, though he does so with a sizable thump followed by the sudden, wild, enormous sounds of large wings beating in the air as he tries to right himself. talons scrape against the floorboards as he gets up and into the air. he very nearly ends up flying into one of the windows, stopping himself only when the light shifts in such a way that it shines over the glass. what? is he trapped? why? who trapped him here?

for anyone else who might be in this particular bungalow: ever had a bird in your room? this is a very similar experience, except his wingspan is well over two meters and those claws certainly look like they can kill. best of luck! )

( as he has done for the vast majority of his life, getian watches the festivities at the beach from afar, roosting in whatever architecture he can find with a decent enough vantage. the time he spent in pei city only further exacerbated the dichotomous feeling he gets when looking on towards humanity—though he has chosen seclusion for a very long time, it is natural and innate for the heart of the miemeng bird to yearn for their world. everything about the summery celebrations seems to him a bright tumult, a riot of color, laughter, and music. he still isn’t sure how he feels about their “music”—if one can even call it that.

getian is still far too cautious to approach them outright. the closest he gets is when night has well and truly fallen. the fake “sky” spangles with constellations that he has to guess are just as fabricated. still, there are some he recognizes, even if the relative positions don’t seem accurate. he frowns. it’s a good enough metaphor for the facsimile this place presents as any—somewhat familiar, but in the wrong way.

the miemeng is most easily found during the firework show, when the sudden bursts of colorful light illuminate the beach—these might, too, illuminate the figure of the huge bird with the torso and head of a man who perches atop the eves of one of the bungalows. regardless of what he’s paying attention to, he seems to sense eyes upon him; as soon as someone fixes him in their gaze, he turns to do the same, wary but also… hopeful? no, he doesn’t say anything to greet them or move to get any closer (or fly away)—but there’s something about him, be it in his eyes or his expression, which speaks to how much he suddenly feels he wants to. )

( he has already observed the so-called end of this “ocean” for himself—he has seen its lie, which hides behind its disquieting facade. the water careens from its manufactured shelf, cascading into the abyss as if it were the very edge of the world itself. getian’s keen eyes could make out the dark, leviathan shapes of machines in the depth of the water, studding the walls of the abyss. their churning sounds are a sinister undertone to the music playing. once he has seen it, his vague curiosity curdles into something almost betrayed. that the sky and the ocean are both lies, and these gardens too orderly and manicured by mortal hands—it is both stifling and depressing to him to consider.

but just because getian has cured himself of his curiosity doesn’t mean others don’t seek to sate their own. as he is accustomed to doing, he observes—or, rather, he observes until he feels as though he can no longer be an observer. one of the strangers has ranged beyond the part of the water sectioned off as “safe,” and now their small shape moves quickly in the increasingly-rapid water, speeding towards the edge and—he doesn’t know. that is an unknown he hadn’t wanted to discover, and so how could he allow someone to plunge toward that discovery, even if it were the cost of their curiosity? how could he, now that he has seen a young woman leap across a broken bridge as a lushu, to deliver the people’s prayers to the silent gods on the other side?

as one hurtles into space filled with nothing but dark and the roar of rushing water, another hurtles after them. getian flares his wings and extends his talons, doing so with odd gentleness. a person is not as heavy as a horse—even working against their downward velocity, it’s not too challenging to get them aloft and into the sky once more, slowly angling toward the distant beach. )

Try not to move. ( like his grasp with those cruel, curving talons, his voice is oddly gentle. ) I don’t want to drop you.