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bats. bats. bats. ...bats. bats.


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A darkness, a quiet, a slightly-shimmering stillness. Common everynight shadows. The world outside creeps in with the breeze of an open window.

It's a tenuous calm, not entirely unlike that known by the Sound Locators that dotted the English Countryside in the early days of the Second Great War, but for the world of difference in the charge of a soldier and the small solitude of one man and his meaningless daily deliberations.

Alight!

A brittle flitter...

A tiny, panicked sound.

Not the strident and terrifying howl of a distant pack of marauders, no - the desperate flailings of a panicked geurilla, terrified behind enemy lines, and with nothing to lose.

Elegantly frightening teeth, wispy wings propelling sinewy flight, ears that hear what eyes don't always see.

I fear I may be under attack soon.

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