Chapter Text
“Parrot, do you understand why you’re not allowed to leave the house without us?”
The ceiling lights never looked so blinding.
He’d held his head down, hair running down his face, its strands pricking his gaze now that it slit past his eyelids.
His feathers, folding without a second thought.
It was that question again.
Words said when he’d mention the sunlight, when he’d mutter about breathing the fresh air outside.
When he looked out the window a second too long.
A sentence they’d already conditioned the roof he’d lived under.
Time blurred past the day those words hit him the first time around.
Years smudged like watercolor.
A bright cloudless morning it was: his father had left for work, waving him a short farewell before inevitably putting his shoes on.
Parrot tried to follow him out the door.
—That was the first mistake he’d made.
Then the second, the third, the fourth—stacked and compressed tighter than the files on his father’s desk.
He’d reached once, and never again.
Parrot blinked.
Another second ticked by.
His fingers: curled at the edge of his sleeves, swallowing down the lump in his throat.
Again—
The question rang. Louder, this time.
But his mother didn’t repeat it.
She stood there in front. The silhouette, just as tall. Her shadow, already blanketing him.
Her mouth hadn’t opened since then.
It was just him.
Parrot swallowed.
His fingers, fumbling on his sleeves. Nails tangled at the frayed end. An effort to fix and something way too noticeable.
“I—”
He swallowed even that down.
The ground only stared. Below him.
The rugs that sat above it were barely coated in dust, cleaned before he’d opened his eyes.
Almost considerate.
Consideration would’ve meant they cared.
A wing twitched.
“I’m not allowed to leave without anyone because it’s—”
R'n uvw fk drgs blf.
—His mother nodded.
Parrot didn’t finish himself.
He didn’t get to.
Not when his wings were curled behind him and his mother’s hand brushed her fingers on his feathers.
Her gaze, drifting to his wings—past his face.
It was never him she looked at.
“Yes.”
Her hands clasped together, lips curling into a smile.
A smile that could easily be described to be warm and sweet, just like the lumens of daybreak itself.
If he really knew what it meant.
“It’s to keep you safe.”
In this world, it’s never easy to receive freedom.
Funny enough, it’s easy to remember it.
And Parrot knew that the moment his eyes got the chance to witness the color of bloodshed for the first time.
A time where the stench of metal passed quick.
Ephemeral.
Like the lives who so happened to be there.
—Silhouettes, continuously collapsing before the lens of a camera could ever catch them standing upright.
Their screams, torn from their throats, loud enough to peel the walls from it.
Their sweat-coated hands would claw their way, a desperate desire to see the sun once more.
That, and the fact that it was taken from them the moment they’d opened their eyes.
Just chances cut before they’re ever received.
Smoke and rubble would blanket the ground, and debris would be the last thing they’d breathe in before falling to sleep.
That was how it looked.
That was how it ended.
Because killing was easy, and people liked easy things.
Parrot—of course—never got to experience that.
He wasn’t someone who could say hello to the sunlight without being pulled back behind closed doors.
But he was aware, if not for the censored footage from the news.
That was all he had.
Aside from those half-assed summaries that hid bodies more than the names he’d learned.
They didn’t mind—it was ‘educational’.
Anything else, his mother would’ve locked him up in his room, leaving him to note down how another hour slipped from his grasp.
But Parrot wasn't an idiot.
He knew.
He knew what it meant.
The destruction, the bloodshed.
The gaze that belonged to lives that were not of his own, swelled with lines under their eyelids, restless in the comfort of their own homes.
Implication exceeds assumption—or so he’d been told.
And Parrot’s been taught many things in his life.
About the world, the nature of things, inevitability. Just like the world he lived in.
A world where someone could be born with varied features, and no one would be able to mirror a face that wasn’t their own.
Where one was merely born different, and everything spiraled since then.
Because in Etherea, power is a gift.
It's something given before the time you open your eyes.
So precious, so delicate, shifting alongside your form without spite. Birthdays can pass, and eventually your face is all they’ll remember from it.
This—in default terms—is called race.
And it’s never been defined by appearance. At least, not when hybrids existed.
This was fixed when the mana science industry discovered that race could be determined by mana structure and blood composition.
It was a simple rule:
They’d observe.
Observe how your secondary blood would flow through its own veins, and how it would interact with the world:
Mana classification and identification.
They should’ve known that earlier on.
…Then probably that war that happened a hundred years before would’ve been way easier to navigate.
But people of that time were negligent.
Too focused on the explosions to count how their comrades would stand beside them.
Look where that got them.
Though, in times of peace, those days were long over, and the smoke that would’ve curled at your vision was long gone.
And diversity had spread since the years of 2023.
Parrot had never been introduced to all of them.
Textbooks never counted.
All they had were words, pictures that were taken long before him, and ripped pages buried beyond his reach.
‘He was better off without them.’
Parrot had to dig those up for himself.
Now, in those books, were useful walls of text.
—That in Etherean biology, races are said to be classified roughly by their power and capabilities.
It was often changed because the government never actually taught themselves how to sort.
What an effort.
The main sorted classifications acted as a hierarchy for some time around until the government set laws about racial/species rights in the years of 2060.
A time when reasons were still meaningful.
In classification, there were the primary ones, the secondaries, and the subtypes that often went unnoticed.
There was also something called mana classification.
It wasn’t the same as racial classification, but that data was a coexistent factor along with that.
For in this case, Parrot was a vital avian.
In data sets, the mana type was always placed before the race because somehow that sounded more ‘proper’ to the ears.
Which he couldn’t really blame them for.
A mana type is basically the mana someone is born with, and are naturally more fluent in using that specific mana since their body has built itself around its structure.
Almost like growing up with a language.
And as unfair as it was, it determined your worth.
It determined if you were gifted enough to climb the heights of respect and fortune.
—Shallow judgment.
It only was that way because mana was the source of magic.
And magic had variety.
Variety meant difference.
That nothing could ever be identical to each other, nothing to be a copy of one another.
You’d be stuck that way until you go six feet under.
Even then, you wouldn’t change.
—Who even said changing your DNA was possible in the afterlife?
Now in this system of information, there was one problem.
A stupid, tedious problem.
And it was about how society never finalized their decision on whether to call these as ‘races’ or ‘species’.
Some argued on how they should call them ‘races’, because everyone is a living being, and they should treat it as such: with equality.
…Aliens existed.
Another crowd argued on how they should call them ‘species’ because of the differing features and characteristics—which honestly had a point.
They also talked about how ‘hypocritical’ the opposing side was.
Well…
The term ‘racial classification’ wasn’t exactly the best representation of equality.
Parrot could admit he was biased.
—Putting that aside.
One thing he could make use of that information was to list and study the characteristics of each race in existence.
It was fun. Enough to pass time.
Enough for the sun to raise high and hide past the horizon by the time he closed the textbook and sighed.
To go easy on listing one of the thousands of races that’ve already existed, he could recite the primary ones.
That was something kindergartners already knew.
—The most common race was the Humans.
Humans were the baseline.
The neutral beings of the world; teetering between being absolutely useless and unstoppable.
This was where the origin of different races had stemmed out of.
Born with dormant mana, Humans could practically be neglectful and ignore the potential flowing right in their veins.
Unless they were determined.
A lot would train, pay someone to do some sketchy spell, or use those runes and staves to make their journey easier:
Awakening their mana.
And once that happened, they were officially rebranded as ‘Otherworldly Humans’.
—Not like anyone used that term anymore.
Talk about ‘complex’ classification.
In science industries, since hybrids started increasing, that job was practically useless.
Something they should’ve fixed decades ago.
Avians, sirens, horribly sorted demon hybrids, those mistyped alien hybrids being mistaken as kind of sea creature—
It was almost painful to look at.
All of them, existing with uniqueness, only to be classified wrong and wrong again.
Those mistakes were crammed together like some half-assed school project.
And somehow even that was still displayed.
Everything else just liked hiding.
Something so discreet.
Just like the locks that pretended they haven’t been there longer than he’d been living.
—Now, about hybrids.
Hybrids were basically something/someone heterogeneous in origin or composition. Like a human and a demon’s offspring.
…He took that from his local dictionary.
Throughout decades on end, the government never failed at sorting them horribly.
It was almost offensive.
A main characteristic hybrids had is that their blood was stable.
And if their blood was stable, that meant their mana was also stable—he had to note that countlessly, somehow.
That caused their powers to be more diverse in a way.
Their appearance too.
Some features would likely cross over, merging or alternating in one way or another.
While that was a way hybrids could be identified, that never meant their biological race was easy to distinguish.
—Like those demon/beast hybrids being mistaken as humans.
Again. A pet peeve.
Then, there were the Half-bloods.
The sole reason why Etherea could never even begin sorting race types correctly, why the government could never categorize them right for once.
Which… he couldn’t really blame them for.
That was because half-bloods and hybrids were so disgustingly similar.
That if Parrot was allowed only one glance, he’d never be able to tell with his eyes alone.
It wasn’t like seeing was believing.
No—
Those days were long gone.
The difference between them was on a biological level: the way their mana and DNA fused together and how both variables were cooperating.
Hybrids, in this case, were beings with near perfect fusion.
Their blood, their features, their mana, all of that: organized so nicely like they were always born to be that way.
Like two puzzle pieces fitting together without difficulty.
Parrot played jigsaw puzzles before.
—He had a whole bookshelf of jigsaw puzzles stacked near his desk.
And like jigsaw puzzles, some pieces are never meant to be together.
This is where Half-bloods come along.
Born with instability, their DNA would fail to fuse properly, too unreliable to assist in their growth.
Causing more problems than promised solutions.
This instability weakens their mana flow, making them one of the weakest races to account for.
Unfair.
There was also something called half-blood classification.
When one racial influence dominates, that race becomes their primary classification.
For example:
A demon/human half-blood having more demonic features and DNA, making them a demon by default, disregarding the fact that they were still part-human.
A ‘half-demon’—if so he could call them.
Simple terms.
Like making nicknames.
And society liked simpler things.
—Then, there was the Demon race.
They were beings born with active mana, meaning their power was accessible from the day they were born.
A swipe of their hand, something would’ve been set on fire.
All they needed was a nudge on the shoulder: a thought that’ll make them strive to be better.
Maybe then they’d improve.
Demons usually had horns, a tail, their skin color being a hue that wasn’t necessarily part of the brown spectrum, and maybe they’d have the colors for their eyes inverted.
But that never meant it was the same for all of them.
Because nothing tried staying the same, except for the wavering eyes that stared back at them.
—A flinch too fast, a breath held too long, a smile curling too tight.
Habits, taught at the sights of daybreak.
And those lasted longer than oil paint drying itself on hanging canvases.
When he'd try to press a finger onto the colors, they’d smudge.
Always messy, always sticking onto skin where he’d told it not to; rolling his eyes would’ve been the last thing he’d done for himself.
Maybe then, he would’ve never tried to open that door.
…
Another race in Etherea were the Beasts.
In Etherean history, beasts started existing right after the demon race populated a quarter of the population.
The first beasts appeared from the depths of jungles and forests, which explained why most of them looked like hybrids of animals—from appearance, that is.
It was arguable whether their mana was active or it was slightly dormant.
At least, it used to be.
The mana science industry proved them wrong one day.
When they eventually got fed up with the poisonous words that came from mouths that didn’t know better.
A single experiment. That was all they needed.
That footage was broadcast on television once, years before his days.
To this day, a part of their research was displayed right past the search bar—if he’d typed the right questions.
Their mana was, in fact, active.
—Active in a way that meant connection.
Like forming bonds with outer forces, summoning magic from the world around them, having elemental control over nature.
A flexible kind of spellcasting, they labeled it; by how it took a smaller toll for them to use their own magic, how they could spend hours looping the same spell.
It wasn’t surprising—beasts always had some kind of instinct to train themselves.
Some kind of sixth sense, maybe.
In time, their hands would be already used to the texture of wind before they’d even realize it.
A consequence of dedication.
They were always known to have mana techniques far more controlled than most; being born with a significantly low amount of mana than any other race in existence.
Their spellcasting was on a whole other spectrum that most never brought themselves to understand.
Appreciation always came last.
Unlike demons and humans, they channeled mana directly from the environment around them.
Things like external mana, which was ichor (liquified mana extracted/summoned by a being), and…
There were probably more.
If he’d found those pages six feet under, maybe he would’ve known.
The sunlight always left him before he’d ever get to finish shoving the soil apart.
Tedious.
Like he’d mentioned a bit before, beasts were known to have animal features, like tails and ears and such.
Maybe they’d even have fur, and wings, and—
Another problem came with that.
Avians of the human race existed.
Then came the sirens, the mermaids, the angels…
Parrot didn’t even bother trying to ‘fix’ that.
He didn’t give less of a care in the world to write his own version of their biology classification.
That surely didn’t matter.
So he went with the system the government already made for him.
Because that was ‘efficient’.
Those names were arranged on their dusty bookshelves already, they probably smelled too.
Again—
Good job on that! Really, what an admirable effort.
Parrot let out a sigh.
He’d closed the textbook, slipping a finger between a page to stick a plain old bookmark before—without a second thought—his head to slump on the cover.
Who was he even trying to fool?
Could he even lie? Lie to the skies above?
To the clouds that shifted by each minute ticking between them? To the sunlight of daybreak that peered past those thick curtains?
He once hoped.
That it would be the consequences of his actions, the prayers he’d sent to the Aethers.
Yet—
There were their eyes. Knowing and aware.
Each word that readied themselves at the throat, already heard before the lips had parted.
He’d stopped trying.
—Parrot turned. He’d glanced.
An instinct.
There was the window, staring back at him, devoid of lumens clinging to its curtains.
It was already evening.
Daybreak had long expired and the moon had finally risen behind his gaze.
That meant only one thing.
—Dinner was approaching.
He’d checked the wall clock for himself, shoving his textbook on the shelves.
It didn’t stop ticking.
The minutes in its hands, already sharper than the pencils he’d cut.
The chair creaked under his grasp as he stood to pull away, then tucking it back where it’d always been.
Composed.
—Parrot forced a breath, closing his eyes.
His hand twisted the doorknob until the hinges creaked wide.
The stairway was no farther than this.
So Parrot lets out a sigh.
Again.
The air was dry, like everything in the house.
Humidity meant warmth.
That the cold breeze could flee, that it’d be easier for tears to leave the eyelids. that smiles were prone to fade.
The moment his feathers would catch sweat, they’d spiral at the sight.
Blasphemous! Disgraceful!
“You should take care of yourself.”
—Parrot paused.
His hand rushed.
Clutching at his guts, fingers curling. The fabric, wrinkled at his grasp.
He’d swallowed—his eyes didn’t dart.
They were stuck.
Stuck at the walls, staring at the dried paint long roughened by wallpaper. Its scent of glue, never fading.
His other hand paused on the rails. Wavering.
A blink away, he’d swallowed another lump down his throat, dry like the air around him.
Humidity failed to reach someone like him.
—There were shadows.
Many of them.
Cast on the wall, shifting in form, their limbs extended, mouths stretched open. The edges of their lips, curled up by instinct.
It’s always beyond his own.
Those smiles.
The ceiling lights look back at him, blurred in orange hues.
His mother had hung them, glistening from gemstones crafted with plastic. Perfectly cut.
Unnatural.
The lumens bleed at the shadow’s rims.
Vibrant.
Saturated.
—Scattered across the tamed shades of his home, spreading like a disease. Bright enough to catch the eye.
To even take it. To steal the gaze.
It’d be blinding if he were to look at it directly.
Blinding if she had been there.
—His pupils recoiled.
The hand that was once at his guts brushed against his face, shading his eyelids. His footing, staggering at the steps.
With an effort, Parrot went down the stairs.
Unsteady.
His head, lighter than his own gaze.
…As usual. He couldn’t fall.
Maybe he could.
And he’d tumble down like those stupid kids in cartoons, laughing it off just like them. Like it was easier to be forgiven within canvasses.
But Parrot didn’t live with drawn lines outlining his face.
He didn’t live with watercolored skies and oil painted skin, nor the faint scent of charcoal etching at the corner of his vision.
He lived in a world where, before he’d known it—
Their hands would already be there.
Clutching at his feathers, checking the crevices of it, before his face, his hands, the wrists, the head—before anything else: to correct colors if they ever were wrong.
Everything outside of that would merely blur together.
Undecipherable.
Never acknowledged.
So Parrot sits at the dinner table.
His eyes, fixed on the food, the fork in his hands prodding at what’s supposed to be healthy for him, the light refracting at the surface of it.
A steak.
Medium-rare, peppered with an assortment of herbs he barely recognized. Prepared long before it reached the stove.
Each piece of spice, each speck of salt.
Measured.
—His hand twitches.
Devoid of warning. Barely noticeable.
The light has already seen it.
Even at the sight of the fresh cuisine at his plate, his throat stays dry. It doesn’t water at the sight of it.
Not ever.
It tangles.
Strangling itself on words he’d never even considered, sentences he would’ve never crafted.
He can’t swallow it.
No—
He blinks it away.
And his pupils flick, pausing at nothing. The porcelain, glaring back at him.
His gaze doesn’t dare to move on.
Only then, Parrot tries to swallow it down.
He raises his fork, a dulled knife following along with it, pressing it against the steaming meat.
And he takes a bite.
He tastes nothing from it.
———