Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He stared down the fairway, past the sizable woodland that flanked his left and the curve of the pond that poked out from beyond the treeline, to the tiny patch of soft emerald in the distance where the 18^th green lay—the final hole for the day.

The early June air crisp but not too bitter in its chill. The sky just the right balance of overcast and sunny, bathing the manicured lawns in bright rays while the sprinkling of clouds overhead shielded his eyes from the worst of sun’s glare.

It was Day One of the tournament in Minneapolis. Only one month remained until the Championship Tournament. Just one more month until he held a Gold Jacket of his own in his hands...

A slight tremor rippled down Shooter’s hand. He clenched and unclenched his fist, forcing the twitch in his fingers to still.

The ball sat teed and ready for him to strike. The fairway before him narrow but nothing he couldn’t handle. He had already achieved a commanding lead in that current leg of the Tour. The final hole more of a formality to secure his top spot for the day and further pave his way to the championship.

Shooter released a calming breath. Lined up his shot and drew his club back for his next swing—

Loud, rapid-fire pops sounded off from the crowd behind him. The small bangs sharp and crackling in his ear, soon followed by howls of ruckus laughter.

Shooter jolted at the racket. His hold on the club slipped— just the smallest amount, his palm sliding a half-inch down the grip before clinging tight once more.

But it was enough to throw off the trajectory of his shot.

His balance wobbled as his club connected with the ball. The power behind his swing wavered and uncoordinated as the edge of his driver struck its target at a clumsy angle.

Shooter watched in dismay as the ball arched sharply to the left and soared straight into the nearby woodland.

More hyena cackles and jeers erupted from the crowd, the hoots and hollers punctuated by another set of exploding pops and the shrill call of party blowers and other noisemakers.

Shooter snarled and aimed a venomous glare over his shoulder at the crowd behind him. Unsurprisingly, a hoard of Gilmore’s deranged fans were the culprits behind the obnoxious clamour. Another set of fire crackers were ignited in celebration of the abysmal shot. The Course Marshal raced back and forth before the mob, flapping about his “Quiet Please” sign with growing desperation.

Magma broiled at Shooter’s veins. White-hot and searing an angry flush over his face. Shooter hissed, his driver still clutched in a white-knuckled grip as he stalked his way towards the woods his ball had disappeared into. Behind him, he could hear his caddie scrambling to collect his golf bag and jog after him, trailed closely by another Course Marshal to join the search.

Another wave of taunting heckles rose up from the crowd, following Shooter’s steps and snapping at the back of his neck as he crossed the fairway:

“Nice swing, Shitter!”

“Didn’t even make it halfway down the fairway!”

“Have fun in the woods!”

“Gilmore made it to the green in one hit!”

“Gonna lose out on another gold jacket?”

Another bolt of fire ricocheted through Shooter’s nerves. The vein at his brow pulsed as he gnashed his teeth and tried to tune out the cacophony of rabid yowling.

From the very moment Gilmore had readied his first shot at the Waterbury Open, the very moment Shooter had witnessed one of the buffoon’s so-called fabled long drives, he knew the other man was going to be his ruin. He could feel himself on edge every time he shared a room with his grating rival. Just the very thought of Gilmore, the mention of his name was enough to sour Shooter’s mood and set his temper blazing.

The moron was an absolute disgrace to the game. An obnoxious clown reducing the once-proud sport Shooter cherished more than anything into a carnival sideshow act! Gilmore should have been tossed from the tour the very first day for his deranged behaviour. Instead, more and more people kept getting drawn into his childish antics! The Championship winners from previous years speaking of Gilmore with glowing praise of his high potential. The crowds of once respectable spectators now swarmed with mobs of Gilmore’s uncouth entourage. Reporters constantly barraging Shooter with questions about Gilmore when Shooter had been the one to win top spot in a tournament! Even Doug, who usually had zero tolerance for misconduct, seemed to be warming to Gilmore, dazzled by the high ratings and surge of popularity his buffoonery brought in!

Shooter was going to try to talk to Doug one last time once the Minneapolis Tournament wound down—try to get him to see sense! Unfortunately, Shooter already had a bad feeling as to what direction the conversation was going to go...

Another chorus of noise makers and air horns rang out from the unruly mob. Shooter flinched at the clamour, shoulders scrunched up by ears, and his teeth dug into his bottom lip to stop himself from screaming.

No... He wasn’t going to let them get under his skin. He had worked too hard to let another Gold Jacket slip away, not when his victory was so certain.

This was his time! Shooter’s tour! And he was not about to let some moronic halfwit take that from him!

Shooter stomped into forest, a carpet of dried leaves and twigs crunching under his fuming steps. His caddie and the Course Marshal lagged further and further behind, the shouts of the two men muffled under the crowd’s continuous jeers.

He squinted at the ground, searching amongst the clods of mud and plant debris for his wayward ball. Shooter growled and shoved a low-hanging branch out of his path as he picked his way through the gnarl of tree roots and shrubs and eventually making his way to the pond at the woods’ edge.

A strange tingling sensation soaked the air as he neared the still waters. Thick and cloying, it vibrated against his skin with the touch of cold static, rising the hairs on his arms and sending shivers cascading down his skin.

Shooter shook the sensation away. Probably just nerves. Gilmore and his goons certainly gave him more than enough reason to be stressed.

His search came to a sudden pause as he stumbled over a pile of sticks, the obstacle nearly sending him head-first into a face-plant. Shooter frowned at what had tripped him—a neatly arranged assortment of tried twigs and rocks, all carefully balanced into a circular shrine-like structure adorned with clumps of moss and fallen leaves.

Shooter scoffed at the sight of the bizarre assembly, its very presence sparking another flash of irritation.

Must be an “art instalment” by another of Gilmore’s brain-dead fans.

Shooter snarled and gave the small structure a firm kick, a small bubble of satisfaction filling his chest as he watched it crumble into a heap of twigs and moss.

“That was a rather rude thing to do, my boy! I don’t waltz into your home and lay ruin to your precious belongings!”

Shooter yelped and whirled at the unexpected voice, his driver raised defensively. He blinked with confusion, lowering his club as he took in the sight of the man before him.

The stranger was an odd one, that was to be sure. Older than Shooter himself and garbed in a tailcoat suit that had to be at least a century out of date. A top hat of dark green velvet sat atop the man’s head, accompanied by a monocle balanced precariously before his left eye. The bizarre ensemble was dappled with brown feathers. A bushy set of eyebrows jutted from the man’s face giving him the vague appearance of great horned owl. He leaned heavily on an ornate walking stick, regarding Shooter with a grin that could be charitably described as “loony.”

“Great... Another clown from the Gilmore Circus...” Shooter rolled his eyes and hissed. He took a threatening step closer, glowering down the strange man, “This is a golf course, not an amusement park! So why don’t you pack up your stupid hat and take your dime-store magic act elsewhere!”

The monocled man cocked his head to the side. The grin at his lips twitched and spread wider.

“Why, I have been in these woods far longer than your silly game course. These lands have been my home since the moment these trees sprouted from the ground! My feet have tread between these roots and along the shores of this quaint pond well before you were even born.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have...” Shooter muttered.

Wonderful. The guy was definitely crazy. Some Willy Wonka-looking wackjob talking like he walked out of some sort of children’s fable and acting as if the five-acre copse of trees next to a golf course was some sort of sacred ground.

Shooter turned his attention back to locating his missing ball. He didn’t have time to deal with this nonsense, or the strange man’s cryptic remarks. It was just another Gilmore’s fans trying to trip him up. Shooter held out his driver and nudged aside the clumps of tall grass with the toe of his club, cursing under his breath when the ball failed to turn up. Dismay itched at the back of his mind as he found his eyes trailing toward the waters before him.

With how things were going at the moment, his ball was probably at the bottom of the damn pond.

“The customary thing to do when so recklessly laying ruin to one’s property and possessions is to apologize for such damages,” the strange man hummed, arching a bushy eyebrow and waving a hand to the scattering of twigs by Shooter’s feet.

“Uh-huh... ” Shooter murmured through his gritted teeth. His jaw clenched to the point of near-cracking. He sifted through another bush, more pinpricks of fire nipped at his skull when he once again unearthed nothing in his search.

His ball had to be around there somewhere!

And where the hell was his damn caddie?! The woods weren’t that big. There was no way he and the Course Marshal could have fallen that far behind and gotten lost!

“You seem like a rather cantankerous sort,” the strange man mused, “Hopelessly chasing after something that remains just beyond your grasp to fill an empty chasm inside yourself. Do you really believe that achieving this elusive goal of yours will truly give you happiness and sense of self-worth you so desperately seek?”

“Oh, so you’re a therapist now too!” Shooter snapped, eyes still fixed on the thatch of cattails he was currently searching through.

A beat of silence fell between the two. Shooter could feel strange man watching him, peering at him through his monocle as if inspecting a curious specimen through a microscope.

“I’m feeling generous today,” the strange man announced, “It is clear you have much on your mind, and so, I will offer you once last chance to make amends for your flagrant disregard for my home and belongings. A word of apology is all I ask for. Nothing more. Then I will let you be on your way.”

A violent twitch seized his entire body. Shooter felt something in him snap. The blood that had been simmering in his veins surged to a full boil as the last shred of patience splinter and break.

Shooter whirled on the strange man.

“Oh, I’m soooo sorry I knocked over your precious little trash heap! Soooo sorry I’ve intruded on the sanctity of your magical woodland! Maybe you should report my heinous crimes to the council of gnomes and unicorns!” Shooter sneered, each word dripping with increasingly thicker coats of venom, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I’ve had just about enough of this court jester crap from you and the rest of the carnival freaks out there! Now go back to whatever bullshit, storybook, enchanted forest you think you’re from, and stay the hell out of my way!”

An eerie blankness fell over the strange man’s face. The mirth that had glittered in his eyes shifted and turned cold. He gripped his walking stick tight. His stare bore into Shooter—piercing but unreadable.

Shooter shifted uncomfortably and turned away from the strange man.

So he upset the weirdo. Who cares?! He was the one skulking about the course and harassing a golfer in the middle of pro tour! If security actually bothered to do there jobs for once, the strange man would have been tossed off the grounds long ago!

Shooter crept closer to the pond’s edge to continue his search.

At long lost, as he inspected the base of a large willow, a glimpse of white poked at his peripherals. Shooter almost cried with joy, his missing ball finally turning up, nestled in a bed of moss and pressed against a protruding tree root.

His grin wilted back into a frown as he eyed the path between himself and the fairway, and the sizable pond that stood between them.

Shooter chewed at his bottom lip as he mulled over how best to proceed. Going over the pond was his only option, but it was going to be a difficult shot. If he went too high, he risked the ball hitting the low branches draped over the pond. Too low, his ball would end up in the water after all, resulting in a penalty stroke and having to go through this mess all over again.

A 3 Wood would give him the leverage he needed—low enough to stay above the water while skirting under the trees.

Unfortunately, his caddie was still no where to be found along with the desired club Shooter needed. The Course Marshal was nowhere in sight either. Even the crowds of gawkers intent on making Shooter’s life miserable had failed to make an appearance, if only to witness his ongoing humiliation.

A dense quiet hung heavy in the air. The woods uncanny in their silence despite being in the middle of a populated golf course.

Probably for the best, Shooter told himself even as the unnatural stillness sat uneasy in his stomach. The last thing he needed was more distractions.

Behind Shooter, the strange man began to murmur a string of unfamiliar words. His voice low, taking on a trance-like state. The strange energy in the air swirled and thickened, ignited with an electrified sizzle that made Shooter’s skin crawl.

Enough was enough!

Shooter grimaced as he readied driver and lined up to take his shot. He was going to have to make due with what he had. The faster he got away from strange man, the better. Shooter was almost done the tournament for that day and was well ahead of his closest opponents. Even with his tee-shot mishap, he’d have no problem maintaining his lead the following day.

With his driver gripped tight, he moved into position and readied his shot.

His arms froze mid-swing. A vice-like pressure clamped at his chest, crushing his sternum smothering the air from his lungs. He clutched at his throat, the driver slipping from his hand and hitting the ground with a soft “thunk.” His flesh shifted, rippled like lumps of wet clay being pinched and remoulded into a different form. Pressure snaked through his bones, popping them out of place and scraping them together. His muscles melted, taking on the consistency of boiled molasses.

Shooter’s legs shook and crumpled from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. Knives stabbed out from his shoulder blades. Barbs clamped into the back of his neck, each vertebrae stretched and pulled beyond their physical limits. He clawed at the ground, struggling to drag himself upright. His back heaved, desperate to pull in drags of air, each gulp grinding against the insides of his chest as if filled with sand.

Darkness clouded the corners of his eyes. His vision constricted, shrank down into a narrow tunnel hazy light.

The strange man loomed over him with a sigh of feigned remorse.

“All I asked for was a simple apology, and you couldn’t even muster that much...” he tutted with a waggle of his finger, “And so, there are consequences for such haughty impudence...”

Shooter tried to choke out a response as the last of his sight dimmed. His arms gave out and he collapsed onto the pond’s muddy bank, his nerves threaded with more and more strings of fire.

He blacked out, the strange man’s laughter still ringing in his ears as that rictus smirk sneered down upon him.

The ball rolled along the gentle slope of the green and, slowly, ever so slowly, crawled its way towards the cup at its centre.

Happy held his breath as he watched the ball edge closer and closer to its destination. It was his third attempt trying to sink that putt. He could feel his temper flare each time the ball skidded just to the right of the hole; every time he put a little too much power behind his stroke and sent the ball skittering to the other side of the green. The grip on his putter tighten as he clamped down on the urge to chuck the stupid thing into the nearest pond.

Just tap it in... Just tap it in...

Chubb’s words replayed in his head in a looping mantra. Happy swallowed thickly, his palms slick with sweat as he eyed the stubborn ball creeping to the hole with agonizing slowness.

Come on... Come on...!

Then, with a satisfying “pop,” the ball tumbled into the hole and settled into place.

“YES!!!” Happy shouted, raising his putter high and pumping in the air in the victory salute.

Cheers erupted from the crowd. Bursts of confetti exploded around him as spectators waved signs cheering Happy on. Several of his fans raised red solo cups overflowing with lager in celebration, beer foam spilling over the rim as they bumped their cups together and let out more triumphant hoots and hollers.

Joy swelled in Happy’s chest at the win, leaving him almost lightheaded with giddy disbelief. Over the speakers, he heard the announcers call out the change in ranks, with Happy having jumped to twelfth place.

The three closest players were just a couple strokes ahead of him. If he kept up his current momentum over the next two days, he might even get ninth place in the tournament! It would be his first time breaking into top ten. And with the higher place in the ranks came a hefty chunk of change in winnings.

Happy took a moment to calculate in his head how much money he would have, and what little would remain if he pulled off a ninth place win. The once gigantic number had dwindled down bit by bit into something manageable. Just a couple more tournaments, and he’d have more than enough. Suddenly, getting grandma’s house back no longer seemed like such an impossible dream.

He might actually be able to do this!

And he did it all without punching or throwing his club at someone’s head!

Happy turned to Virginia with a grin, eager for her positive report on his good behaviour. He had been careful to listen to her warning about cleaning up his act, even if some of the other golfers were practically begging to have their teeth knocked out (namely, a certain top-ranking twat with the stupid-ass finger guns). He couldn’t risk getting thrown from the tour, not when it was his best shot at scraping together enough cash to pay back the IRS. He knew he had come a long way since his first game. And, alligator fiasco aside, he was getting better at controlling his temper and not throwing a swing at the first sign of provocation.

His smile faded when he spotted Virginia in the crowd, her face grim as she spoke in a low tone with two other tour officials.

“Thanks, I’ll let you know if I hear anything...” he heard her say as the other two officials departed. A heavy sigh drooped her shoulders as she pressed her hand to her brow and shook her head.

“Hey, everything alright?” Happy called out as he tossed his putter to Otto and jogged over to her.

Virginia turned to him with a strained smile.

“It’s fine... Hey, congratulations! That was an impressive victory. I’d say that’s the best game you’ve played so far!”

Happy frowned despite the praise as he noticed the pinched furrow in her brow.

“They’re not upset over something I did, are they?” he nodded to the pair of officials walking briskly to the next hole and its assembled golfers, “You saw me out here today! I’ve been careful not to do anything that could get me kicked out!”

“No, no, it’s not you,” she chuckled, a bit of warmth returning to her smile, “You were good out here today, and I appreciate that. No, it’s actually Shooter...” worry creased her brow once more, her lips pressed into a thin line, “He stormed off the course earlier this afternoon and he hasn’t been seen since...”

“Really?” Happy nodded, trying not to smirk, “What’s got his panties in a twist?”

Virginia scowled at comment but didn’t reprimand him further.

“His ball went into the woods during a bad tee-shot. He seemed pretty mad about it too. Anyway, he went to go retrieve it, and that’s the last anyone’s seen of him.”

“Huh... Is that so...” Happy hummed, biting his tongue to stop himself making another snarky comment about his rival. He had overheard some of fans talking about the incident in passing, a few of them still laughing over McGavin’s spectacularly terrible shot.

“Eh, I wouldn’t worry about him too much. The uptight prick probably just went off somewhere to throw a hissy-fit,” Happy shrugged, “He’ll show his face again once he’s blown off some steam.”

“Maybe...” Virginia’s frown deepened, “It’s just strange that he’s vanished like this without a word to anyone. Spectators, tour officials, other golfers—no one has seen him. We contacted the hotel staff for where he was staying in case he slipped back there, but they said he a hasn’t returned to his suite yet. He hasn’t been answering his cellphone either...”

“Come on, he’ll be back and bossing everyone around before you know it,” said Happy, trying to reassure her, “The way he yaps about that Gold Jacket, no way he’ll be skipping out on the tour for long. And if he still doesn’t show up, we could always try to lure him in like a stray animal. Maybe lay out a few cans of Diet Pepsi as bait?”

“Happy...”

“Hey, I’m kidding! I’m kidding! Look, I really do hope he turns up—for your sake, at least,” Happy offered her an encouraging smile, “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Virginia smiled back, “Get some rest. You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

The two waved goodbye to each other and went on their separate ways—Virginia heading back to the clubhouse, and Happy strolling in the direction of the golf course’s exit, with Otto tagging along beside him.

It was as he passed through the parking lot that a strange sense of unease stirred inside him, and the full weight of Virginia’s words began to sink in.

McGavin was a Grade A prick, there was no question there! Ever since the haughty bastard had tricked Happy into having a 9pm meeting with Portland Links’ sprinkler system, he wanted nothing more than to deck that smug grin right off his face! Even after that stunt, the guy continued to be a pain in the ass—hogging the attention of any camera that passed by him, trying to “smooth talk” Happy into dropping out of the tour, and just being an overall condescending douche any time they interacted. Him stressing out Virginia with his disappearance only added to the long list of dickery he had already accomplished.

But still... As much as he hated the guy, Happy couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that was something was off. A strange sense of wrongness that scraped against the insides of his chest and left his palms clammy with cold sweat.

Happy shook thought away with a grimace. Everything was going to be fine. McGavin would show up the next day like nothing happened, and everything would return to normal! Then Happy could focus on winning enough money in the tournament.

In the meantime—Happy’s stomach rumbled, reminding him of how long it had been since he’d last eaten— there was a Subway restaurant just outside the course grounds that was calling his name.

Cold mud pressed against his chest. Gummy and wet, its frigid touch sent a damp chill sinking into his bones. He could feel the slimy press of pond water lap at his sides. Could faintly hear its gentle trickle past the heavy roaring in his ears.

Shooter blinked awake, half-lidded and drowsy, the hazy outline of tree branches swayed overhead, greeting his vision. A dull ache radiated from every muscle in his body. His neck and back in particular felt off—stretched and pinched at an odd angle, the nerves jabbed with hot pins. A pained groan rattled inside his chest, the noise coming out as a garbled squawk. He tried to move his limbs, get his feet out from under himself so he could shamble into a standing position, but his legs refused to cooperate.

Slowly, memories of what had transpired before he blacked out unfolded themselves from the sludge lolling around in his skull and rolled back into place. His ball had flown into the woods along the left side of the fairway after a poor swing courtesy of Gilmore’s nutjob fans setting off fire crackers...

Spikes clenched at his muscles. His whole body feeling like it had been twisted up in spools of barbed wire. Shooter winced. His head stuffed with gauze as he tried to piece together the series of events that had led to the side of his face being smeared against a pile of mud.

He had gone into the woods to look for his ball... Had searched through the bushes and trees until he reached the pond...

How much time had passed? He still needed to finish his final hole.

An eerie quiet still blanketed the woods. The treed surroundings void of any other person.

Dizziness slammed into Shooter as he tried to lift his head, the swell of vertigo almost making him pass out once more. He closed his eyes to block out the searing pain chiselling its way into his temples.

He was certain he had managed to find his ball—right by the pond bank he was currently laying in. He had readied his club, had been just about to take his shot, when the strange man with the top hat and monocle—

The strange man!

Shooter’s eyes snapped open. The surge of anger giving him the adrenaline he needed to drag himself upright.

The strange man must have been the one to knock him out! Shooter’s head certainly felt like it had been dealt a hefty blow, his skull throbbing with the burning touch of hot knives jammed deep into the bone.

This was a new line crossed! Shooter seethed. Gilmore’s fans had always been a menace, but hiding in the woods and knocking out unsuspecting golfers?! That a new low for them! Doug had to listen to Shooter now! Had to finally recognize the damage Gilmore was doing to the sport, and that his presence in the tour, along with the lunatics he drew in, was a danger to the other golfers! Oh, Gilmore was as good as gone after this!

Shooter eyes darted about in search of his assailant. He squinted at the dense thickets of brush and bowed willow branches, but found no signs of movement among the leaves and bushes.

He could have only been out for a few minutes. The strange man couldn’t have gone far.

Shooter lifted his arm to check his Rolex for the time to try and gauge how far the man could have fled.

Horror paralyzed him as he eyed what should have been the back of his wrist. Ice water flooded his chest as he looked down to see that where his arm should have been instead stood a feathery limb of snowy plumage.

A scream clawed its way up from Shooter’s lungs, the noise contorted into a loud honk. Panic gripped his chest. He tried to pat himself down—tried to reassure himself that he was only seeing things! But the wings only flailed harder as he scrabbled at himself in hysteric disbelief.

No... This can’t be real... This is a just a dream... Yes! Just a really, REALLY screwed-up dream—it had to be!

He turned to the pond and looked down into glassy waters, the mounting fear spiked and cut through his chest as he saw a swan’s visage stare up at him from the reflection where his face should have been.

“This could have all been avoided...” the monocled man reappeared at Shooter’s, seeming to walk out from the very air. He clapped his hands together and let out a deranged giggle as he circled Shooter with a vulture’s looming menace, “Even a child is capable of formulating a simple apology for their misdeeds. Alas, it would appear you have chosen a fate most unfortunate. Let us see if you are able to obtain that which you covet so dearly now...”

Shooter continued to stare at the pond, shaking. His beak hanging open with equal parts terror and outrage.

No, no, no! This wasn’t happening! Not now! Not when he was so CLOSE!

How is this even POSSIBLE?! Shooter’s mind wailed. He tried to cry out, but only succeeded emitting another feeble honk. This was the kind of crap that should only exist in a fucking fairytale!

This was worse, far worse than any disaster Gilmore and fans could come up with!

His hopes of getting Gold Jacket fizzled and evaporated into mist, slipping from his grasp in slippery plumes of vapour.

Shooter whirled on the strange man with an angry squawk, demanding he change him back!

The space beside him stood empty. Barren and silent, the woodland empty save for Shooter himself, as if no one had ever stood upon those grounds. Shooter shouted at the strange man to come back, but the echo of his own frantic honks was the only answer he received in response.

Despair crushed him with a boulder’s weight as Shooter felt his whole world sink into a crater. He curled into himself, wings scrunched up and feathers fluffed out, his mind spiralling in a thousand directions.

What was he going to do?! He couldn’t continue the tour in his current state! And just how long was he going to be stuck with feathers and a beak for, anyway?! Was this bird form temporary? Or was he going to be stuck like this forever?! Forced to live out the rest of his life like a wild animal! This whole mess was ridiculous—it didn’t make any sense! People didn’t just turn into animals because some top hat-wearing looney toon waved his hand—!

Beyond the woods, he could hear the muted clamour golfers continuing their game; the whir of golf carts driving along the looping pathways.

Shooter perked at the noise. His elongated neck stretched up to his fullest height as he peered across the pond to the fairway on the other side.

He wasn’t going to fix anything wallowing about in the woods! He needed to find help!

How he was going to explain things to the other golfers and tour officials while he could only communicate through a series of honks and chittering squawks was another question, but he’d figure it out! He had to!

With his mind made up, Shooter followed the bank of the pond and waddled his way back onto the grassy plains in search of someone who could aid him.

The day was winding down. Most of the golfers and spectators had already filed out of the course to rest up for the next leg of the tournament. A handful of stragglers still lingered about, clumped together in small groups and exchanging excited stories of how they had done that day. A couple other golfers could be seen in the near distance, taking a moment to fit in a few last practice swings in before packing it in for the night.

Happy strolled his way along the course grounds, his golf bag looped over his shoulder and a plastic bag with his Subway order clutched in his hand. It was a nice day, and he didn’t feel like returning to his hotel room just yet. Otto had taken off to explore the city, giving Happy a chance to relax and enjoy his meal.

He found a comfortable spot by one of course’s ponds. The waters smooth and topped with lily pads, the bank bordered by sprigs of of tall cattails. Quiet, save for the soft chirp of crickets carried along the gentle breeze.

Happy plunked down on the grass, dropping his golf bag and clubs beside him, and cradling his sandwich on his lap. He plucked the sandwich from its bag. His stomach grumbling impatiently as the wrapper crinkled in his hands. He peeled the paper back, nearly drooling at the sight of the foot-long oven-roasted turkey sandwich in all its meaty, cheesy, sauce-filled glory.

Happy smacked his lips together, a gob of sub sauce dripping from the back of the sandwich and landing on the plastic bag with a small “plop” as he opened his mouth wide, eager to tear into the first bite.

He paused, the sub just a mere inch from his mouth, as a flash of white fluttered out of the corner of his eye.

Happy blinked and lifted his head to see a large swan standing at the edge of the pond just mere feet from where he currently sat. Its feathers a bright, snowy white. An orange beak trimmed in black poked out from its face, its long neck perked and stretched high.

A smile lit Happy’s face as he eyed the swan. His grandma used to take him to the park near their home to see the ducks and geese there. The two would sit on a bench after Happy’s hockey practices, ice cream cones clutched in their hands, as his grandma pointed out all the different types of birds and explained their migration patterns. Happy had always found the sight of the birds calming, the ducks and geese gliding over the pond and leaving a trail of soft ripples in the waters behind them. Swans weren’t quite as common a sight at the park, but when they did show up, Happy had always been impressed majestic presence—massive wings outstretched as they swept in for a smooth landing on the pond’s waters.

The swan watched him—sharp-eyed, almost glaring— no doubt eyeing the sandwich in Happy’s hands. Given the amount of people on course, the swan was probably used to getting handouts from others.

“Awww, hey buddy! You want a bite of some Subway?” Happy smiled as he tore off a chunk of bread and held it out for the swan to take.

The swan remained rooted in place, statue-still save for the slight fluff in its feathers and a twitch of its beak.

“Okay, you’re a bit nervous around people. That’s fair,” Happy pulled back his hand and prepared to toss the hunk of bread, “Here—”

The sub morsel sailed through the air in a shallow arc and struck the swan just above its beak.

Happy winced as he watched the bread chunk bounce off the swan’s head, roll off its wing, and tumble to the ground. The swan shook its head, wings ruffled, as it let out an annoyed chitter. Happy gulped, now certain the swan was glaring at him.

“Whoops! Sorry about that,” he said with a nervous laugh as he went to break off another piece of bread, “Here, let me get you another...”

But before he could present the new offering, the swan let out an angry honk. It fanned out its wings, and rushed at Happy in flurry of flapping wings and a snapping beak.

“Hey! Easy!” Happy recoiled, drawing his knees close and clutching his sandwich to his chest, guarding his meal from his feathery attacker, “I said I’m getting you some more!”

The swan hissed in response and redoubled its attack. It snapped at Happy’s hands, determined to bite off one of his fingers.

Happy jumped to his feet, cursing. Any docility that he may have seen in the bird at first was long gone, and a damn velociraptor had taken its place!

“Alright! Calm down!” he shouted. A tomato and some onions slipped out from the bottom of the sandwich as he struggled to keep his dinner out of reach of the swan’s sharp beak. Happy hissed as the tips of those large wings thrashed against his let.

His eyes flicked to his golf bag and the 9 Iron sticking out from the top.

Happy edged closer to bag, his sandwich cradled protectively against himself. He could probably grab the club before the swan charged at him again. Or maybe give the dumb bird a swift kick.

Murmurs sounded from nearby. Happy cringed and turned to see several other people whispering to each other and pointing at him as they watched his embarrassing confrontation with the local water fowl.

Happy sighed. The fight drained from him as Virginia’s warning flashed in his mind. He really did want to keep his promise to her about cleaning up his act. Plus, as far as encounters with wildlife were concerned, he was already on thin ice over the alligator incident in the Everglades.

Throwing hands with some fancy, dickhead bird wasn’t going to do him any favours.

The swan lunged again. Happy yelped and lurched back, narrowly dodging another snap of its beak. This time, his evasion wasn’t quite so elegant, and tripped over his own feet, nearly tumbling to the ground; his sandwich fumbled and bounced back and forth between his scrabbling hands before it plummeted from his grasp and spilled upon the grass.

Happy stared at his fallen meal, forlorn. His stomach let out a defeated rumble. The once majestic footlong now splattered across the ground in a carnage of roasted turkey, sub sauce, and scattered veggies. He debated picking the sub up and eating it anyway—three second rule, right?— but the swan had waddled up to the sandwich and was now hovering over the spoils like dragon guarding its stolen hoard.

“There!” Happy snapped, throwing up his hands, “You get the whole damn sandwich! Happy now, asshole?!”

The swan flapped its wings, threw back its head and made a chittering sound as if laughing at him.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too, Big Bird,” Happy grumbled as he picked up his golf bag and stalked back to the Subway to place another order.

The fallen sandwich lay before him, sprawled open in a mess of soggy, mayo-saturated lettuce and sliced turkey. His opponent fled, muttering a string of his typical, colourful vocabulary as he collected his clubs and stomped away from the pond with his meal abandoned.

A victory, but a hollow one.

Shooter quickly found the momentary spark in his mood at terrorizing his headache-inducing rival wilt and dampen into a cold puddle as the reality of his current predicament set in once more.

He was still stuck in this impossible nightmare. Still stuck as a damn swan! And no amount of terrorizing Gilmore and ruining his dinner was going to change that.

Shooter’s wings drooped, his head hung as he let out a wan, sighing honk. Trying to communicate with the other golfers and tour officials had gone about as well as he should have expected. Most had ignored him, keeping a cautious distance as they carried about their days. Others had shooed him away with a wave of a hand or club, while a small few had cooed to him and tried to offer crumbs of whatever granola bar had been sitting in their pockets.

A flash of irritation ruffled Shooter’s feathers, a growled huff puffing out his chest as he thought of the bread chunk that had been tossed at him just moments earlier.

The idea of being hand-fed— and by Gilmore of all people—had left him bristling. The bread chunk bouncing off his head only added to the growing list of indignities he had suffered that day.

A tomato slice that had been teetering precariously between the layers of bread and turkey slid out from its confines and plopped onto the grass, slimy and drenched in thick dollops of sub sauce. Shooter cringed as he eyed the sorry excuse of what apparently Gilmore considered a “good” sandwich. The sub was more sauce than subsistence, oozing with viscous gobs of mayo and mustard that left the bread soggy.

He didn’t even have the decency to add some jalapenos!

That said, despite the objective unpalatableness of the mulched sandwich, Shooter couldn’t help but feel his stomach gurgle at the sight of it. He hadn’t eaten much that day. Just a cup of coffee and an energy bar on his way to the course. His mind had been on Gilmore, annoyingly enough.

It was ridiculous how much the idiot was occupying his every waking thought! Gilmore was a hack with only an over-hyped power drive to back up his fame! His short game was shit, his knowledge of the sport mediocre at best, and he could barely go through a match without throwing a punch.

And yet, despite his blatant inexperience and shortcomings, Gilmore was slowly, but surely, clawing his way up the ranks. There was even talk circling around that Gilmore may even break into the top ten during the tournament!

Another hungry growl from his belly seized Shooter’s attention.

Against his will, Shooter found his eyes drawn back to the dropped sandwich, snared and drawn in as if latched with a set of hooks. The rumbling in his stomach growled louder, taking on an almost hostile edge, the leftovers looking distressingly more appetizing the longer he stared at them.

Shooter grimaced as he considered his options. He needed to eat something! Swan or not, passing out was the last thing he needed. The idea of rifling through Gilmore’s leftovers from far from appealing, but he supposed it was marginally better than digging through a trash can or a filthy pond in search of food.

Cringing, Shooting leaned down and nosed his beak through the wreckage. He sifted through the sodden lettuce managing to find a few shredded clumps that weren’t entirely doused. He nibbled tentatively at the bits. Revulsion and hunger swelled up and battled inside him as he gathered the morsels into his beak and forced himself to swallow them down, the tattered remnants of his pride crumbling with every mouthful.

Shooter McGavin: famed pro golfer, on track to becoming the next Tour Champion, now munching on fallen scraps like a common seagull...

The sensation of eating in a bird’s form was unpleasant to say the least. Trying to eat with no teeth to chew his food with was not an experience he wanted to revisit. Still, even with how distasteful the meal and his current circumstances were, Shooter could feel the gnawing hunger pains begin to ease. His stomach settled as he swallowed down more bits of lettuce.

The golf course soon grew quiet. The last of the golfers and spectators having drifted away as the last of the sun’s rays faded, and the night’s dim stretched out over the lawns in dark swaths.

Shooter followed the edge of the pond and wandered his way back into the woods. The waters now an inky black, mirroring the clouded night sky overhead.

Trying to communicate with the other golfers wasn’t going to work, not while he was waddling about with wings and a beak! There had to be some clue in woods—something the strange man had left behind that could reverse his condition!

He eventually made his way back to where the whole disaster had started. That corner of woodland that hugged the southern tip of pond where he had chased his flyaway ball to. Shooter frowned (or at least would have had his mouth not been turned into a beak) when no sign of the strange man could be found in that spot. Not even the pile of sticks he had kicked over that sparked this madness were nowhere to be seen. Uncertainty clawed at the back of his mind. His head swivelled back and forth as he searched the area. He was so sure the droop of the willow branches and the thatches of cattails matched what was in memory. The area certainly looked like the same place he had woken up in.

Shooter clicked his beak and let out a hiss. He knew this was the right spot! The tricky bastard was probably hiding in the trees watching him flounder about! There had to be something around there that could help him. Something he could use to dig himself out of this mess. He was Shooter McGavin: soon to be Tour Champion! And he wasn’t going to let some deranged harlequin stop him!

As Shooter moved to continue his search, strips of silver bled through the canopy of leaves arched above him.

Overhead, the moon spilled out from behind the veil of clouds, basking the pond in rays of shimmering silver. The air swept in palpable swirls of tingling energy; the waters rippled and coiling together, coming alive in the lunar glow.

An electrified jolt seized Shooter’s body once more. He staggered mid-step. Boiling pins sank deep his back and set the muscled tissue aflame. He felt the bones in wings shift and thicken— crack and rearrange themselves of their own accord, yanked in and out of place by the invisible strings of an unseen marionettist. His limbs twisted and stretched. His neck and face screamed as they compressed in on themselves. Plumage fell away from his body in snowy cascades, each feather vanishing in a cloud of dust as it hit the ground.

Shooter lurched forward with a ragged gasp, a hand braced against a nearby tree to keep his balance. He pressed his forehead against the trunk, the cool bark easing some of the feverish heat that soaked his skin. Tattered gasps heaved his back, fingernails clawing at the tree as his hand scrabbled to keep its hold.

Wait... a hand?!

Shooter flung himself from the tree. Lifted his hand to sky and stared in joyful disbelief at the sight of his own splayed fingers reaching up to the stars. His fingers—long and calloused from years of golf; not that damnable set of wings! He waggled the digits, tears gathered in his eyes as he nearly wept at the sight. He pat down his face, relief and jubilation singing through every cell of his body when only smooth skin brushed against his fingertips, his mouth miraculously free of a jutting beak!

He was back to his old self! Somehow, he had changed back into a human form! He didn’t know how, but the nightmare was over!

Shooter’s mind spun as he tried to parse out the bizarre, and downright impossible sequence of events that had made up his day.

Had the whole incident just been one, long, twisted hallucination? It was the only reasonable explanation! The man in the woods must have dosed him with something—a hallucinogen of some sort. Yes... That had to be it! Something airborne that he had breathed in during their encounter? Shooter didn’t recall smelling anything out of the ordinary, but maybe the toxin the strange man used had no odour.

A breeze brushed against his bare skin. Shooter shivered, suddenly realizing the state of nakedness he was currently in. He hugged himself to ward off the chill, ducked behind a nearby shrub on the off-chance someone were to wander by and see him.

Shooter squinted at the ground, the moonlight illuminating the brush and trails of gnarled tree roots in a pale glow.

His clothes had to be around there somewhere, along with his cellphone! He could call for help! Get someone to pick him up and have the strange man arrested for attacking him! It was the least that slippery bastard deserved after everything he put Shooter through!

Shooter crouched down and searched through the shrubs and ferns, muttering a curse to himself when not a single one of his possessions turned up. His clothes, his phone, even the driver he had carried into the woods had all vanished.

Had the strange man hidden them to add to his humiliation? Or maybe someone else had have come by and picked them up? There had to be people looking for him— tour officials, course marshals, his own damn caddie!— when he didn’t emerge from the woods to finish the final hole. Nevertheless, the reasoning as to why or how his clothing had gone missing didn’t change the fact that he was indeed standing naked in an empty golf course in the middle of the night.

Shooter cringed as he thought of what rumours must be flying around, of him running around the wooded parts of Minneapolis Parkland butt-naked.

He needed to look for something he could cover himself with until he could find help. Maybe one of the tournament banners had blown loose and ended up in the woods? Or perhaps someone had left behind a jacket or sweater that he could pilfer and tie around his waist for a short time?

Shooter expanded his search, trekked deeper into the woods as he looked for something—anything!—that could be of use. Sharp twigs dug in the bottoms of feet. Any warmth left in his body quickly leeched away by the damp coldness of the ground seeping into his footsteps. Shooter hissed, his shoulders hunched up by his ears and his teeth chattering. He chewed at his nails—a nervous habit he had found himself falling back into as of late—gnawing them down to the nub, his eyes darting between the moonlit patches of greenery.

The bright white of a poster board jutted out from between a thatch of leafy ferns: one of the signs that had been waved around by Gilmore’s fans, tossed aside as they vacated the golf course for the day, the words “HAPPY IS OUR HERO” written in thick Sharpie.

Well, at least this one managed to spell everything correctly, Shooter scoffed to himself as he examined the poster board for rips and damp spots; rolled and unrolled sheet to test its durability. The quality seemed fine enough. At least it seemed unlikely to fall apart as he fashioned it into a temporary garment.

Sighing, Shooter bent the sign in two and folded it around his hips, covering his rear and groin. Far from the best substitute, and likely not enough to avoid an indecent exposure charge, but it would have to do. Any charges would likely be dropped once it was made clear to the authorities that he was attacked, but that wouldn’t protect him from any reporters who might manage to snap a few photos of him in his unfortunate state. The tabloids would have a field day getting their claws on such scandalous footage.

With himself covered as best as he could manage, Shooter raced through woods in the direction of the course. He hissed as more sharp rocks and branches nipped at his steps. He clenched his teeth, and ignored the biting jabs in his feet. His hands trembled, struggling to hold the sign in place as he sprinted ahead.

Through the thicket, Shooter could see the neatly trimmed grass of the fairway just ahead. The arc of sprinklers shimmering in the moon’s glow and raining glittering drops of mist on the grass below. Beyond the fairway stood the course’s clubhouse at the crest of hill, a couple of the windows still lit up despite the time of night.

He was almost there! Shooter reassured himself, heart racing and his palms slick, the poster board nearly slipping from his grasp. Someone had to be inside the clubhouse! Security, maybe one of the groundskeepers finishing up for the night, or even a tour official working late! There had to be someone who could help him! Someone who could get him a fresh change of clothes and a ride back to his hotel suite so Shooter could finally put this whole disaster of a day behind him! Then he could get back to the tournament and—!

The moonlight dimmed as a cloud passed overhead. The streams of bright silver snuffed out like a smothered flame, and the grounds blanketed in pitch dark once more.

Violent spasms seized Shooter’s body once more. He cried out, his sprint coming to a halt just as he was about to step onto the grass. Agony screamed through his muscles as his scapulas split and wrenched themselves upward. His spine ripped out of alignment and forced into a shape not possible for the human body. The sign slipped from his hands as he felt his fingers twist and change form once more. His flesh itched and burned as rows of feathers sprouted up through his skin in tangles of downy weeds.

No—! Not again!

Shooter flopped face-first to the ground as his legs shrank. Tried to claw himself forward across the grass even as he felt his fingers wither away. White blinded his vision as the pain became too unbearable, his right arm still outstretched before him as he collapsed on the grass.

Eventually, the sensation of boiling knifes gouging into his flesh stopped. Shooter lay slumped across the lawn, drained and feeling very much like a cored apple.

Blearily, Shooter opened his eyes, blinking away the gummy clouds that fogged his vision. But what he saw made him want to squeeze his eyes shut and sink into the ground. A sight that made him want to burrow into a nest of blankets and pretend it was all a bad dream that would vanish with the arrival of the morning sun.

For where his outstretched arm should have been was instead a large, white swan’s wing.

He would have sobbed if he could. His mouth a flapping beak that could only communicate in hoarse, snorting honks and unintelligible chitters. Hands that had once gripped a golf club twisted back into a useless set of wings that could hold nothing.

The clubhouse stared down at Shooter from the top of the hill with an almost mocking veneer. He couldn’t go up there now, not like this. Anyone he encountered would just shoo him back to the pond like any other wayward bit of wildlife.

Unsure of what else to do, Shooter eventually slumped back to that nook where the southernmost tip of the pond met woods, his head hung and his webbed feet dragging on the ground.

The monocled man was waiting for him. Perched upon a fallen log, cackling and kicking his feet with childlike glee. He clapped his hands together and flashed a grin of sharp teeth.

“Did you really think things would be so simple? That you could shake off your punishment after only a mere few hours of serving its sentence?” the strange man tutted, “No, dear boy. Not so easy by far. Why, not even the nighttime hours alone are enough for a breath of respite. For it is the moon that is truly what is needed to grant you a reprieve from your curse,” he waved a hand to the sky with an orchestra conductor’s flourish, the man practically vibrating with sinister glee as he pointed out the pale outline of the moon still smothered behind a thick veil of clouds, “Its silver glow is the only balm your will receive from this most unfortunate of fates. And you best be at this pond when it comes out if you wish to savour a taste of your former life...”

And in a flash, the strange man vanished once more. Blinked back into the shadows from whence he came, leaving the woods empty and desolate once more.

Shooter called out. Screamed in frantic honks until his throat burned, pleading for the strange man to change Shooter back, but his cries were met with nothing but dead silence. The woods still in silent save for the rustle of leaves fluttering in the breeze.

Shooter sagged, his wings curled in on himself as the cold, dark, quietness of the night closed in around him.

Chapter Text

Voices scraped at his ears. Distant and foggy. Their words muffled as if called out to one another from beneath the water’s surface. Tree branches rustled, the snap of twigs and dried leaves under the heavy tread of boot steps drew closer, crunching along the foot-worn trails and winding their way towards the pond.

Shooter stirred from his fitful rest. He lifted his head from the crook of his wing, blinking at the rays of light peeking out from the across the pond. He hadn’t slept that night, not truly. Just squeezed his eyes shut and hoped dearly that he would be curled up in the lush blankets of his hotel suite bed when they opened once again.

Alas, he was nowhere near his soft cocoon of Egyptian cotton sheets and luxurious fluffy pillows. Nowhere near the warm sanctuary that offered hot steam showers and freshly brewed cups of coffee delivered to his door by room service.

No, he he was still in the damn woods where he had spent the better part of the previous day. Still submerged in the cold, and the damp, and the mud, and the sticky leaves clinging to his tail feathers.

Oh that’s right— feathers! He was still in the body of a damn swan! The worst factor in the towering list of ever-worsening disasters that made up his current miserable circumstances!

Popping aches snaked their way down Shooter’s back as he unfurled his wings. He winced, joints stiff in ways he had never imagined thanks to the sizable, feathery appendages that had replaced his arms. He shivered, feathers puffed out and wet with morning dew.

The boot steps and low murmurs closed in on him. Squinting through the foliage, Shooter spotted the uniformed officers of Minneapolis’s Police Department picking their way along the trail. A German Shepard tugged at the leash of the officer leading the way, the dog snuffling the ground as it padded through fallen leaves.

The dog’s ears perked. Its head snapped up, eyes wide and locked onto Shooter.

The German Shepard barked and lunged forward, its leash pulled taut and snapping teeth drawing far too close.

Shooters hissed and flapped his wings in retaliation, feathers puffed out, and nearly stumbling over his own webbed feet to put some distance between himself and the slobbering mutt.

“Leave it!” the officer snapped, pulling the canine away. The dog continued to tug and thrash at its lead, whining at being denied the chance to chase down its quarry.

Shooter hissed again as the dog made another attempt to lunge for him. He kept his wings fanned out, a flimsy shield against a canine’s jaws but it was all he had in that moment. Fly—an instinct shouted in the back of his mind. Blared past his every thought with a tornado siren’s howl. Though as much as his mind screamed at him to perform such a feat, he couldn’t puzzle out the mechanics for flight. He gave his wings a flap, loose feathers flying in a shower of snowy down.

The effort achieved little more than aimless flailing. His webbed feet still planted firmly on ground, his flapping failing to accomplish anything that resembled proper liftoff.

“Wonder why its not flying away?” one of the officers commented.

“You think it’s diseased or something?” the one holding the dog cringed, a flash of panic crossing his face as he tugged the German Shepard further away from Shooter.

Another officer tip-toed closer. He tilted his head to the side with a hum and squinted at the swan.

“Nah... it looks fine. We probably just startled it.”

“Since when are you an expert on swans?”

“It’s call having a working pair of eyes, dumbass! Anyway, this is the spot where one of the course marshals found McGavin’s stuff. We should do a thorough search of area, see if anything else turns up.”

Shooter tensed at the mention of his name. Craned his neck up to its full height and peered at the thatch of long grass the officers were searching through.

Well, that answered the question of what had happened to his clothes. At least his disappearance hadn’t gone unnoticed by the tour officials.

A part of him wanted to stay and observe. To see if the officers found any additional clues about his current condition that he had missed. Maybe he could try and convince them that...

That what, exactly?!! That some top-hat wearing weirdo had cursed him to turn into a swan?! That the missing golfer they were searching for was in fact the frazzled bird flapping about behind them?! He had no way of communicating that information, not that anyone would ever believe such a story, anyway! And with the way things were going for him lately, he’d likely just get mauled by their rabid dog for his trouble.

Shooter edged his way closer to the pond, eyes narrowed and fixed on the Shepard that still looked far too interested in making a swan its next meal. The waters lapped at Shooter’s legs as he traversed the muddy bank, the cool touch unexpectedly calming, tickling an urge to throw himself across the pond and glide across its glossy surface. Under any other circumstances, he would have been annoyed at getting his feet wet.

Great... now he was getting “Swan Brain.”

He shook the thought away and plodded onward, away from that nook in the forest and stubbornly refusing the buried instinct to swim across the pond as he made his way towards the familiar comfort of the grassy fairway.

As soon as he showed up to the course the next day, Happy knew something was off. Usually, the other golfers were out and about at the asscrack of dawn, fanned out over the various fairways and fitting in as many practise rounds as they could before the tournament resumed.

Instead, everyone was mulling about the outside of the clubhouse. Golfers and caddies alike exchanging bits of anxious chatter as they stared, expectant, at the clubhouse’s entrance. The tension in the air palpable and vibrating with nervous energy.

Happy nudged his way through the throngs of golfers with Otto tagging close behind. That same unsettled feeling from the day before returned— a scraping sensation of cold sandpaper grinding against the backs of his ribs and filling his chest with powdered bone matter. Happy’s frown deepened as he caught snippets of the whispers bouncing back and forth around him.

“Shooter still hasn’t turned up?!”

“What’s gotten into him? Just taking off in the middle of a tournament without a word to anyone!”

“Weird thing is, apparently they found his clothes in the woods. You think it was a robbery?”

“If he was mugged, wouldn’t they have stolen his things? I mean, his Rolex and cellphone were untouched. Not to mention that driver he was carrying around alone could have been pawned for a decent amount.”

“I heard he was abducted and that the kidnappers are holding him hostage for a hefty payout!”

“That’s bullshit! If he was kidnapped, there would be some sort of ransom note.”

“Yeah? Well maybe the tour officials are keeping it quiet! It would be terrible press for them if word got out that one of their top players got snatched right from the course grounds in the middle of a tournament!”

“Or maybe the pressure just got to McGavin and he finally snapped. It wouldn’t surprise me, he’s been on edge since the start of the tour.”

“If he doesn’t show up soon, he’s going to miss out on another gold jacket.”

“Hey, what’s going on? I thought everyone would be on the course by now,” Happy asked the golfer standing closest to the stairway that led up to the clubhouse. It was the golfer who always seemed to pop up with a disapproving shake of his head whenever Happy’s temper got the better of him. Now what was his name...? Larry? Lewis?—No! Lee! That was it!

Lee turned to him shaking his head, this time the gesture not a reaction to something questionable Happy had done.

“Shooter still hasn’t turned up since he went missing yesterday. The tournament’s on hiatus until they find out what happened to him. They’ve got the police out there searching for him and everything,” Lee sighed, “Not many are saying it outright, but people are getting worried. We’ve never had a golfer just disappear like this on the tour, let alone one so prolific.”

“Damn...” Happy grimaced, the sandpaper in his chest scraping deeper, “What about Virginia Venit? Is she around?”

“Probably, but I haven’t seen her myself,” Lee said as he adjusted the brim of his baseball cap, blocking the sun from his face, “She’s probably got her hands full managing this whole mess and explaining what’s going on to the press. Something like this has to be a PR nightmare.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet...” Happy sighed and nodded. He gave the other golfer a friendly pat on the shoulder and turned to leave, “Hey, you take care, Lee.”

“Don’t you go disappearing too,” Lee answered with a wry smirk.

“No promises!” Happy hollered back, chuckling.

It didn’t take long for that scrap of levity to fizzle out and turn flat like old soda. He wandered down the grassy slope to the course fairways and away from the hum of jittery voices swapping grim tall tales and rumours of what had happened to Shooter. The nervous chatter around the clubhouse had been getting to Happy, making him twitch. The sandpaper shearing at the insides of his chest now twining between his ribs and squeezing with thorned jabs.

Happy frowned as that unease continued to gnaw at him with dull teeth. It’s not like he actually cared about McGavin. If the asshole decided to drop from the tour for whatever reason, he’d be doing Happy a favour!

Still... the idea that something truly bad had happened to Shooter didn’t sit right with Happy. Sure, there were plenty of times Happy wanted to kick McGavin’s ass (even added that motive to his list of reasons for playing pro golf ranked just beneath getting grandma’s house back), but something like this was different. Something very wrong.

“Hey...” he turned to Otto as the other man continued to trod alongside him, “Even if Shooter magically pops out of the ground and shows up right this second, I doubt we’ll be playing today. Why don’t you take the day off? Enjoy the Minneapolis sights. You can lock the clubs in the trunk, I’ve got a spare set of keys.”

“Thanks,” Otto responded with a nod and quiet murmur as he shuffled in the direction of the parking lot with Happy’s golf bag and clubs in hand.

Happy strolled onward, Timberlands scuffing along the grass as followed the shallow slope downward to the fairway. Even the handful of golfers who were practising by the holes that had been cleared by investigators looked tense. Looking over their shoulder with anxious glances, faces pinched, fearful that they would be snatched next.

It looked like Virginia was right to be worried about Shooter’s whereabouts. The more details that surfaced about the disappearance, the weirder things got. The patch of woodland he had vanished into was only about five acres in size. A search of the area shouldn’t have been that difficult. Not to mention, the entire course was swarmed with cameras. There was no way the tour’s star player getting grabbed and hauled away would go unnoticed. From what he had heard, Shooter’s caddy and one of the course marshals had been just behind him too when he had stomped into the woods, yet they lost sight of him almost immediately and hadn’t the faintest idea of what had happened to him or where he could have gone. The more Happy learned about McGavin’s disappearance, the more it was beginning to feel like something you’d see on one of those alien abduction shows that aired at two in the morning.

The mention of Shooter’s clothes being found left behind— with his valuables untouched, no less!—only added to the bizarreness of the whole incident. McGavin certainly didn’t seem like the streaking type, then again, it’s not like Happy actually knew the guy all that well. Who knows, maybe he had some sort of hidden exhibitionist side the public was unaware of.

His eyes flicked to the woods where Shooter had vanished, the area now roped off with yellow police tape with a steady stream of investigators filing in and out of the tree line. Happy recognized some of the course marshals and security staff aiding the officers—the same officials who had still been searching the grounds when Happy left the area for the day following his harrowing encounter with the angry swan.

And speaking of...

Happy scowled as familiar feathered face waddled up the hill. Feathers ruffled and wings partially arched like a rocket prepared for launch. It shambled up the slope, webbed feet slipping and stumbling on the grass as it toddled right up to Happy’s side.

“Well, well... Look who it is,” Happy glared down at the bird, “Come to shake me down for more snacks?”

The swan’s head jerked, feathers bristling, as if Happy’s very presence was an offence. It hissed and flapped its wings, clearly agitated at being directly addressed by the golfer.

“Hey! I’m just here minding my own business!” Happy threw up his hands and snapped, “You waddled up to me! So piss off if you think I’m such a nuisance!”

More fuming trills were unleashed by the swan. That serrated beak snapping a little too close to Happy’s pant leg for his liking.

“I ain’t got any sandwiches for you to mug me for today! So why don’t you flap your pretty wings and take off, ya feathery asshat!” Happy took a threatening step closer and growled down at the bird. He could feel his temper flare. A match lit about to be tossed into a pool of kerosene. The telltale flush nipped at his face, his hands clenched and unclenched, itching to strike.

The swan squawked back with matching ire. Head reared, chest puffed out, and wings fanned out to their full length, making itself look as big as possible.

Commotion from the woods drew Happy’s attention before he could act on his burst of anger. His gaze flicked to the treeline and the officers filing in and out of the thicket with their leashed canine units leading the way. The sight poured a bucket of ice water on the flames crackling in Happy’s veins. The urge to fight melted away and an unexpected pang of sympathy for the bird taking its place.

Even the fire in the swan’s honking seemed to deflate. Its wings drooped by its sides, worn-out and wilted like an unwatered lily. The wheezed honk it emitted coming out more as a defeated sigh.

“Yeah, I guess they’re probably messing up your nesting grounds tromping around in there... I’d be pissed too if a bunch of uniforms stormed into my home and turned everything upside down,” Happy sighed and shook his head, “They’re looking for a golfer who went missing yesterday—last seen in those woods before he up and vanished into thin air.”

He nodded to the copse of willow and maple trees as he spoke.

“Say... You haven’t seen McGavin wandering around in there, have you?” Happy turned to the swan, “About 6’3,” with smuggest, most punchable face ever? Probably running around with his ass hanging out at the moment?”

The swan whipped its head in Happy’s direction, its beak hanging open, appearing affronted, the expression almost uncannily human on the bird’s face.

“I mean, it’s not like you can miss it,” Happy grinned, “It takes up half the green.”

An angry honk was the swan’s retort. It recoiled and thrashed its wings. Snapped its beak and let out another string of hisses.

“Really, you’re taking his side?” Happy scoffed, “You do know he’s the reason you’ve got half a police force in there trampling down your home right now, yeah? Plus you’d agree with everything I said if you met the guy— ass and all.”

The swan scrunched up it wings, ducking its head within the folds of its puffed-up feathers, and let out a chittering sound that had to be the bird’s version of angry muttering.

Happy shook head and chuckled. He turned on his heel and continued walking further into the course.

To his surprise, the swan continued to waddle along at his side. Webbed feet padding on the grass, it’s head bobbing in tandem with its steps. Unconsciously, Happy found himself slowing his stride so that the swan could keep pace.

“You know... I kinda know a little about what you’re going through,” Happy sighed, looking back at the woods, “With your home being taken away and all. My grandma just got her house repossessed. The IRS has been on her for not paying her taxes and now they’re threatening to take her house if we can’t pay them back in time. But she’s just a harmless old lady! They couldn’t give her a break?!”

The swan made no noise in response but Happy got the strange feeling that the bird seemed to be listening.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m out here doing all this golf crap in the first place,” Happy shook his head, “Turns out I have a wicked drive, and the pro tour offers some decent money. If I do okay in the next couple tournaments, I might be able to scrounge together enough cash to get her house back.

“I mean... I guess the golf’s not all bad,” Happy continued, a tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I mean, its no hockey, but it’s okay in its own way. It’s been nice to feel like I can do well at something for once. And I’ve met some alright people here, too.”

As if on cue, Happy spotted Virginia walking towards them from the opposite end of the fairway.

She blinked with surprise, noting Happy’s unusual travelling companion, before smiling down at the swan.

“Looks like you made a friend.”

“I’m pretty sure he just sees me as a walking, talking Subway dispenser,” Happy shook his head and chuckled, “So, any updates on our missing diva? I heard some of the other golfers say they found Shooter’s stuff in the woods. Is that true?”

The smile vanished from her face, and a weary sigh sagged her shoulders.

“Yep. Clothes, driver, watch, phone, even his wallet—all left seemingly untouched. And not a single clue as to where Shooter himself might be.”

“Shit...” Happy shook his head, “Well... maybe he’s just sleeping off a nasty bender somewhere? You said he was pretty pissed about that bad tee shot yesterday. Maybe he had a few drinks to drown out the frustration and got a little carried away?”

“I almost wish it was something that simple,” Virginia sighed, “Bad behaviour can be explained. But up and vanishing in middle of the Pro Tour when he’s the projected champion for this year? There’s not easy or reasonable explanation for that. Word of Shooter’s disappearance has already reached some of our sponsors, and they’re demanding answers we can’t give.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose as if to shoo away an oncoming migraine. The tired circles under her eyes seeming to darken even further.

“They’re not hassling you over all this, are they?” Happy frowned.

“Well, one of our top players disappearing isn’t a good look for us, and someone has to have the lucky job of placating the media and our sponsors while we sort things out,” she said with a wan smile.

“Hey, you don’t actually think something bad happened to him?” Happy tried to keep voice easygoing even as that unease crept and snaked its way through his body like an unruly set of vines.

The swan threw itself between the two of them, flapping its wings and squawking as if trying to get their attention. Happy and Virginia stared down at the swan in confusion before continuing their conversation.

“I hate to say it, and I don’t want to be an alarmist, but it’s starting to look that way,” more weariness sank into her voice, “There are a lot of rumours flying around, each one more crazy than the next. I’m not saying I think any of them are true, but that still leaves us with no leads and no info to go on. Like I said before, this isn’t like Shooter. You’ve seen him in front of the cameras. He thrives on attention! If he left the course yesterday on his own accord, he would have said something to the media.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Happy said with a grim hum.

The swan continued to chitter, practically dancing between them as it waved its wings, feathers flying as the motions became almost desperate.

“Hey, you know something, buddy?” Happy crouched down in from the swan, “Did Shooter fall down a well somewhere?”

The swan balked, halting its flailing and seeming to scowl at Happy before resuming its frenzied honking.

“I’m pretty sure that swan isn’t Lassie, Happy,” Virginia chuckled.

“Hey, it was worth a try,” he shrugged and stood up, “So I’m guessing they’re going to postpone day two of the tournament?”

“The officers investigating Shooter’s disappearance have asked us to keep most of the course clear,” Virginia nodded, “A few holes have been opened for players to practice, but we can’t resume things until their search is completed. And given the circumstances, we can’t rule out foul play.”

The swan let out a strange, almost exasperated sound, its wings flopped down to its sides.

“Yeah... I was afraid it might wind up being something like that,” Happy murmured, readjusting his baseball cap to cover up the uncomfortable twitch that rippled across his shoulders.

“Listen, we’ll let you know once the investigation has finished up here,” Virginia offered him a tired smile, “Hopefully Shooter will show up in the meantime and that this whole disappearance is just one big misunderstanding.”

Between them, the swan let out another feeble honk. It’s earlier frantic energy drained and wheeze away, the bird now looking very much like a deflated balloon.

“Sure thing,” Happy nodded and returned her smile, “You take care of yourself. Don’t let them work you down to the bone!”

“And you stay out of trouble, too! One wayward golfer is enough for me to deal with,” she laughed and gave Happy a friendly pat on the shoulder as she departed in the direction of the investigators gathered by the woods.

“Well, what about you, Feathers?” Happy turned to the swan, “Any plans for the rest of the day?”

But the swan was already dragging itself back down the slope and towards the pond, wings slumped and head hung in a look of dejection.

“It was nice chatting with ya!” Happy called out to the swan, earning a set of raised eyebrows from the pair of course marshals walking by him at that moment.

Happy awkwardly waved to the two before turning to the direction where the parking lot lay and making his way out of the course. There was no point sticking around if the tournament was still on hold. Might as well find something else to do for the rest of the day.

Foul play?!

Shooter groaned internally, head hung and wings flopped by his sides, his webbed feet dragging on the ground.

Well, there was certainly some type of “fowl” involved. Shooter cringed at the play on words. Then again, such a statement seemed annoyingly fitting given how his life had devolved into a dumb joke in the past day.

His webbed feet stumbled on the grassy slope as if to emphasize the point. Shooter hissed, wings flapping out as he barely caught himself from doing a face-plant. Out of the mountain of inconveniences that came with being stuck in a swan’s body, simply walking had neared its way to the top. With his tall stature, Shooter was used to crossing long distances in just a handful of strides. Able to walk the length of even the most sizable courses at a brisk pace without breaking a sweat.

Now, he was stuck waddling about from place to place with the gait and clumsy lack of grace of an infant’s crawl. Simply crossing the fairway felt like it took an eternity with his now stubby legs and ridiculous webbed feet.

Just fly!—that annoying voice chirped again in the back of his mind.

Shooter’s wings fluttered at the thought. Twitched and trembled, itching to soar into the air. He gritted his beak and folded them snugly back in place, quashing the bothersome instinct. He would be out of this “trapped in a swan’s body” mess soon enough. He had to be! There was no way he was going to waste time that could be spent finding a way out of this disaster by giving into swan antics, no matter how much they chewed at the corners of his brain. Besides, even if he did miraculously manage to achieve some form of flight, it wasn’t worth risking a broken neck if he wound up crash landing.

The click of a club striking a ball rang out from the next hole. Shooter looked up to see the ball soar into the air in a small arc and land on green two yards from the hole. A chip shot made by one of the tour’s mid-rank golfers—not amazing, but decent enough.

Longing ached in Shooter’s chest as he watched the golfer grab the putter offered by his caddy and line up his next practice shot. For almost as long as he could remember, golf had been a part of Shooter’s life, as essential to his being as sleeping and breathing. Golf had been one of the few things to consistently bring him joy; a comfort to him even the most trying of times.

He still remembered the first club he had ever held. The driver that had been placed in his grasp perfectly balanced and feeling like it belonged in his hands. He couldn’t have been any older than six at the time. His parents had brought him along on one of their visits to the prestigious country club they frequented—the venue used primarily for strengthening their network of affluent business partners between sips of bourbon for his father, and shared mimosas between his mother and her gathering of socialites. They had no doubt enrolled Shooter in golf lessons in an attempt to bolster his lacklustre social skills.

What Shooter’s parents likely didn’t expect was that the event would trigger a lifelong passion for him. His parents themselves had barely ever touched a club, and they had certainly seemed annoyed when he instead began spending hours watching pro golf games, studying the techniques of his golfing idols and trying to mimic the motions himself. The many mornings Shooter spent pouring over sports magazine articles and reciting the golf stats he had committed to memory rather than mastering navigating social webs of his peers (of course, his parents’ opinion of his golfing fixation warmed greatly once he started achieving fame in the pro leagues).

In truth, that country club where he had honed his skills felt more like a home than his family’s estate ever did. The bright, manicured grass of the country club’s fairways glittering in the morning sun like beds of emeralds, adorned with glassy ponds and trimmed with quaint patches of oak trees. Shooter had always felt at peace on the course fairway— Holding a club in his hand and readying his shot filling him with a transcendent sense of calm; the joy at seeing his ball soar through the air and land on the green just as he had calculated.

And as his skill in golf grew, so did his confidence. His interactions with his peers remained clunky, but his talent had fuelled a bravado he had not felt before. Bursting from the chrysalis of the shy, timid child and transforming into someone self-assured and powerful as he won match after match. He had been twelve the first time he had curled his fingers in the shape of a pistol and taken aim at the hole he had just sunk a ball into after an impressive chip shot. The gesture had filled him glee. Had felt good and fitting like a well-tailored coat!

Now... he was forced into role of unconventional spectator. Cursed with wings that could hold no club and banished to wallow on the sidelines, while talentless hacks like Gilmore who took the sport for granted were still free to play to their heart’s content.

Gilmore...

Fire blazed at Shooter’s face as he recalled what his opponent had said about his backside.

Just what the hell was Gilmore doing staring at his ass anyway?! It was a perfectly normal size!!

Okay, maybe his backside was a little more full than average. And maybe buying pants off-the-rack that fit him properly was an exercise in frustration that he had given up on long ago, now only filling his wardrobe with outfits that had been custom-tailored to his measurements.

Shooter had never been what one would call small. He’d been chubby as a kid, with a persistent weakness for sweets. His parents had often scoffed at his appearance, several times shaking their heads as they watched him dig into a dessert and threatening to send him to a camp for “portly children.” He had slimmed out quite a bit after a series of growth spurts during his teenage years that had shot him up past six feet in height. That said, he remained broad in the chest and shoulders, with a belly that never entirely vanished.

And of course, his thighs and rear that retained their full shape even when he was at his most lean.

Still, despite the infuriating (and highly unnecessary!) comment about his appearance, Shooter found himself remaining in Gilmore’s presence. Plodding alongside his hated rival like they were old friends. The interaction had been surreal to say the least.

Was he so desperate for human interaction that he was willing to humour Gilmore’s obnoxious babbling?! He was the only one in the entire course who had talked to Shooter to any degree since growing a pair of wings. Of course, that only painted a worrying testimony to his rival’s sanity given that it was clear that Gilmore saw him as nothing other than a swan.

Shooter recalled what Happy had mentioned about his grandmother’s house. Out of the long list of reasons as to why someone like Gilmore would join a pro golf tour, earning money to reclaim a grandparent’s home was not one he would have predicted. Shooter had assumed its was some sort of dare or bet that had gotten out of hand when Happy ended up winning the Waterbury Open.

Shooter made a mental note of what Gilmore had shared. The information could be useful later.

And he had been correct in his assumption that Gilmore would eventually wander his way over to Virginia. It was nearly impossible to find one without the other ever since Virginia had been assigned Gilmore’s handler, especially with Gilmore tagging along after her like an attention-starved puppy. Not that Virginia had been able to do anything to help Shooter either given his current state.

A sigh slumped Shooter’s wings, the noise coming out as a croaked honk. He wandered onward, making his painstakingly slow rounds of the course. Eyes flicked to the position on the sun and waiting for it to sink into the horizon, hoping dearly he would regain his body just as he had the night before.

What am I even doing here?

The question rattled through Happy’s head as he walked through the doors of one of Minneapolis's public libraries and strolled past the towering shelves stacked with well-worn paperbacks. Then again, it was the same question that had been ping-ponging through his mind since the moment he had picked up a golf club.

He had happened to be walking by. Just aimlessly strolling along Minneapolis’s streets to fill out his day He wasn’t in the mood for practising for the next leg of the tournament, not with the weird atmosphere humming around the course. Happy could hear Chubbs’s voice in his head, chewing him out for not taking advantage of the extra bit of spare time that had fallen in his lap to improve his game. Happy had found himself pausing outside library; squinting up at the aged sign carved into the stonework above its entrance, inviting him to come inside.

A thick but calm hush enveloped the inside of the building. The scent of dusty pages tickled his nose and filled the air with an aroma that was similar to the antique shops his grandma sometimes visited. His boots left a booming echo with each step, earning him a few angry glares from readers seated on the nearby couches. Happy winced at the racket and softened his tread, loudly whispering a “sorry” to the readers he had disturbed.

A strange place for him to spend free hours, maybe; but with the tournament on hiatus, there wasn’t much else he could do in the meantime. It was hard to say how long the investigation would drag out for.

Besides, his high school English teachers had always nagged at him to do more reading. Sure, more than a decade overdue from what they had hoped for, but better late than never.

And there was one particular topic Happy had in mind.

Happy manoeuvred his way around the display cases filled with best-sellers and librarian recommendations, past bulletin board crowded with posters of community events, and made his way to the information desk at the library’s centre.

An elderly woman sat behind the desk, her wire-frame glasses balanced precariously on the tip of her nose as she penned some notes into a hefty ledger. The librarian was tiny in stature, her expression open and friendly even as she focused on her notes.

A bead of warmth glowed in Happy’s chest, the librarian reminding him a bit of his grandma.

She looked up from her bookkeeping and greeted Happy with a kind smile.

“Hello, young man. How may I help you today?”

Happy awkwardly cleared his throat and shuffled closer to the desk.

“Yeah, I was wondering if you had any books on swans?”

“Oh, you must have encountered some of the mute swans that make their homes in our parks,” she perked, “They are quite the enchanting sight!”

“Mute swans? Is that what they’re called?” Happy smirked, “The one I ran into seemed yappy enough.”

“I’m sure there are some rather chatty mute swans around here,” the librarian said with a light chuckle, “The name comes from their vocalizations in comparison to other species of swan like the trumpeter or whooper swan.”

“Huh... Didn’t know there were a bunch of different types... Cool.”

“The mute swans are actually not native to this continent. They were originally brought over from Europe as exotic pets in large estate gardens,” the librarian stood up from her desk and waved for Happy to follow her, “They escaped and eventually established homes and breeding populations in our ecosystem.”

She guided him past the rows of bookshelves to the section of the library reserved for local wildlife. The librarian squinted at the codes printed on the stickers affixed the books’ spines, plucking a few chosen texts from the shelf and handing them to Happy.

“This should give you a good start. Let me know if you need anything else, dear.”

“Thanks, this should be good,” Happy accepted the books from her with a smile.

He found a quiet table at the far end of the library, tucked by a rack of heavy accounting books that looked like they had never been touched. Happy settled himself in and started with the book at the top of his pile—a colourful, well-worn text on waterfowl of the Midwest.

A quick scan of the index brought him to the section of the book dedicated to mute swans.

—Known for their elegance, mute swans are easily recognizable by their white plumage, orange bill, large size, and the S-shaped curve of their necks—

Happy nodded as he read over the description, eyes flicking to the photo included on the page, noting the image was a near-perfect match the swan he kept running into on the golf course.

—Mute swans are territorial over their nesting grounds and can become aggressive to those they deem a threat—

Yeah, no shit!

Happy winced, massaging the patchwork of bruises that covered thighs courtesy of the swan’s lashing wings. Though given the way that sharp beak was snapping at him, he was lucky he didn’t loose a finger too.

Still, even having been on the receiving end of that characteristic aggression, Happy couldn’t help but be impressed on swan’s behalf. He had always thought they were dainty and mostly useless in a fight. The reports of them attacking pedestrians and canoesists with wingbeats strong enough to potentially break bone certainly dispelled that impression. Any person or animal that didn’t take shit from anyone had his respect.

Happy turned the page and moved onto the next passage.

—Although mute swans will sometimes choose a new mate if their previous one perishes, they are often considered monogamous and will typically stay with the same mate for life. Their well-documented pair bonding has made them popular symbols of romance in literature and art—

Cute, Happy mused to himself as he skimmed over the contents and turned to next page. Not that he could relate to the mute swans in that department given the disastrous end to his most recent relationship.

—Although feeding bread is a common activity for those who encounter mute swans, the practise is not recommended as bread contains few nutrients needed for their diet—

Oops! Happy cringed, recalling the bread chunks he had thrown to the swan. He looked over his shoulder, half-expecting someone to pop out of thin air and condemn him for nearly poisoning a bird. He continued reading, taking note of the recommended snacks—frozen peas, spinach, lettuce, and other leafy greens. He scribbled the food items on the back of gas receipt that had been sitting crumpled in his pocket.

Happy poked his way through a few more of the books, noting the similar information they contained and adding a few extra notes to his gas receipt. About twenty minutes later, he returned the stack of books to the librarian, thanking her for her help as he departed the library.

The laundromat was his next stop. He hauled out a sizable bag of clothing from the backseat of his car and dumped its contents into the closest available washing machine. Happy stared as he watched the swirl of clothing and soap suds circle round and round in a hypnotic tangle as he waited for the washer’s timer to tick down to zero. The process repeated when he transferred his damp clothes to drier. Happy drummed his fingers across the aged armrest of the laundromat bench, impatient. The drier finally ended its cycle with a loud “ding.” Happy jumped from his seat to retrieve his clothing, the garments still scented with the mild fragrance of his detergent and warm to the touch. He tossed the bag of freshly-cleaned clothing into the back of his car and carried on to his next destination.

Happy had meant to go to the nearby Subway next and pick up his dinner for the evening before returning to his hotel room to chill in front of TV for the rest of the night. Instead, he found himself wandering into the next door grocery store, taking a detour to the vegetable section and filling a small basket with some of the items listed on the back of his gas receipt.

This is ridiculous, Happy scolded himself, even as he fished through his pocket for a rumpled ten and handed it to the store clerk. What was he doing wasting what little bit of pocket change he allotted for himself (most of the money he won was needed for grandma’s house) on some asshole bird that kept harassing him on the golf course? He sure as hell didn’t owe the swan. If anything, the swan owed him a new damn sandwich!

And yet, for reasons he still couldn’t explain, Happy found himself weirdly drawn to the swan. Some deep-rooted, nagging voice in the back of his head that told him the bird needed his help. Well, obviously the swan was in trouble given the dumpster-fire the investigation into McGavin’s disappearance had dumped on what was likely its nesting grounds. It still didn’t explain why Happy’s brain had decided that was suddenly his problem.

You have such a big heart, Happy! — his grandma’s voice beamed inside his head—You see someone in trouble, and you immediately jump right in to help!

Happy didn’t know how accurate his grandma’s words were, but it had been nice to hear. Despite often being the one to throw the first punch in a fight, he really did try his best to be a good person, and he didn’t like seeing people treated wrong.

Looked like that brand of Gilmore Goodwill was being extended to waterfowl now too.

Moments later, the clerk handed him his change, and Happy departed the grocery store with a plastic bag filled with frozen peas and a head of lettuce. A quick stop at the Subway secured a meal for himself. Maybe if the swan had its own snacks, it’d be less likely to try and attack Happy for his own dinner.

The sun had almost set by the time he made it back to the golf course. The few golfers who had practised on the cleared holes had already packed up and left for the day, leaving the fairway empty save for a handful of groundskeepers doing their evening rounds of course maintenance.

Happy picked his way down the slope, plastic bags filled with veggies and his own sandwich dangling from his hands, and followed the fairway to where the pond curled around the wooded area by the 18^th hole. Cattails swayed in the breeze at the waters’ edge, rustling between the chirp of crickets and frogs. He paused at the spots where he had encountered the swan before, squinting through the evening dim at the surrounding area and frowning when no sign of the golf course’s feathered resident could be found.

A handful of white feathers dotting the grass soon grabbed Happy’s attention. The plumes found at the edge of the wooded area Shooter had disappeared into, the trail of snowy fluff leading past treeline in deeper into the copse of arched willows.

The area was still cordoned with strips of yellow police tape despite the investigators having packed up and left for the day. Happy ducked under the flimsy barrier and crept his way inside.

The woods seemed much larger on the inside than they did looking at them from the fairway, stretching far wider than Happy had predicted. The trek taking unusually long for the allotted acreage of the tree-covered lot. Several times he could have sworn the trail was looping in on itself— twisting around and around in an endless spiral. The air strangely heavy as he ventured further into the woods—charged and tingling with the same energy that could be felt right before a large storm rolled in.

Happy scowled at a low-hanging branch he could have sworn he had encountered at least twice before. There was no way the woods were so big that he was getting turned around in circles already!

The sky had darkened into the pitch, with not a single sliver of sunlight left to guide his path.

The toe of Happy’s boot caught on a root, a willow branch whacking him in the face as he scrabbled to keep himself from stumbling. He cursed and shoved the tree limb out of his way, ripping out several leaves in the process.

He debated turning back. The golf course had to be officially closed by now, and any security patrolling the area wouldn’t be thrilled to find him skulking about what was technically labelled a “crime scene.”

Happy shook his head with a stubborn growl and forded onward.

He’d come this far. He wasn’t turning back now!

Moonlight began to peek through the canopy of leaves overhead, dotting the dark sleeves of his Bruin’s jersey in silver speckles. The added bit of light made it easier to see through the dense thicket. Water burbled from just beyond the next thatch of trees. Lapped at the shore in gentle ripples and reflecting the moon’s glow.

He must have managed to work his way to the other side of the pond after all.

Happy moved the branch before him aside and gasped, eyes nearly popped out of his skull at the impossible sight that lay on the other side.

Night at last.

Shooter stared up at the darkened sky, a haze clouds obscuring the bright glitter of stars and moonlight from overhead. Pinpricks of their luminous glow thrummed from beyond the foggy veil. Pulsing against the wall of murk as if trying to burst free.

He sat by the pond, wings tucked against him and eyes locked onto the dwindling beads of light overhead. The final strips of sunlight had final faded and sunk out out of sight. Shooter had spent the better part of the afternoon counting down the hours and minutes to nightfall, the sun seeming to crawl across the sky, refusing to settle for the day.

If what the strange man said was true, he should be able to turn back to human form now that the sun had gone down. Should be able to reclaim his old body for a handful hours. It wasn’t much, but it was something! A taste of the familiar comfort and safety of his true self that he could cling to for a breath of respite. Besides, it would be much easier to figure a way out this mess if he was in his real body.

Yet, the sun had long set and Shooter remained a swan.

Unease slithered down his spine. It seeped down his every vertebrae in sticky clumps, reaching to the very tips of his wings and making them twitch.

Had the strange man’s words been a lie? Shooter wouldn’t put it past him. The shady loon certainly seemed like the type to fill his unfortunate target with a false sense of hope and rip it away for his hope for own amusement.

Shooter had tried once again trying to interact with the other golfers and tour officials. Had waddled his way from hole to hole after, calling after his old compatriots with desperate trills. Needless to say, they had been less than thrilled with being followed around and accosted by an overly persistent swan. Shooter had kept his distance once they started discussing whether or not they should call animal control.

He released a heavy sigh. The shaky breath scraped at the insides of his chest as if swelled with broken glass.

Was this to be his life from then on? Hiding in the wooded corners of a Minneapolis golf course and cursed to live out his days surrounded by the thing he loved most while trapped in a form that ensured he could never take part in the sport that meant more than anything to him. Truly, Shooter couldn’t think of a worse hell...

Silver then bloomed across the pond. The glassy waters rippled and stirred, seeming to come alive in an electrified dance as a lunar glow fell across its surface.

Shooter’s gaze snapped up to the sky, taking in the glorious sight of the moon sliding out from behind the clouds and standing unobstructed in the night sky.

Almost immediately, he could feel his body begin to shift. Ligaments detached and fused anew. Feathers disintegrated in ashy clumps. His heart raced. The air choked from his lungs as his organs rearranged themselves and slotted into their new spots.

The transformation was every bit as painful as it had been before. His joints popped out of alignment. His bones cracked—elongated and wrenched into a position that was less avian and more in line with something that resembled the human form. His muscles screamed as they were stretched and twisted into strings of putty before being mashed into fresh shapes.

Eventually the pain stopped. The hot needles burrowing into his muscles cooled, leaving the tissue raw and scorched. His limbs heavy and filled with molten lead.

But even with dull barbs radiating through every molecule; with legs that quivered and ached as he struggled to regain his footing, Shooter had never felt happier. A chuckle rattled in his chest, near-delirious with joy as he patted down his own body and felt naked flesh against his palms with not a single feather in sight.

Shooter sagged against the tree with a sigh of relief, tears misting his eyes. He was himself again. Back in a proper body with legs, and hands, and no fucking beak or wings, even if only for a short—

“What the FUCK?!”

Shooter’s heart stopped at the familiar voice. He whipped around, a gasp of breath tangled in his throat, as he turned in the direction of the shout that could only come from one person.

Sure enough, none other than Happy Gilmore stood behind him, his eyes bugged out and his jaw dropped to the ground. The plastic bags he held slipped from his hands, spilling their contents over the woodland floor as he stared at his rival with flabbergasted disbelief.

“Holy Shit—SHOOTER?!”