Cordell thought he had seen it all. And he'd seen plenty, done plenty, acted plenty and tried plenty, but this one took the cake. He was perching on a rock in Newland, most curious when an Opifex walked through the whompa from Borealis, dragging a big, heavy trunk that had seen better days, its leather fried by the sun, corners chewed by age and as far as he could with a reet's beak make out, probably been in an old house somewhere damp. She had a tiny playback radio set up to her coat (he couldn't make out what the tiny text on the badge said), and was chewing on something as she navigated apparently by reading a map written on a napkin. Every step she took clattered with the empty cans of Rubirango tied to the trunk. Her destination seemed clear, and she clattered away to the direction where he knew Miss Chan lived.
During the ten minutes the punk was away, Cordell kept his eye on the transit system, waiting for someone.
Then the clattering made itself known, and as much as he hoped it would go away or stop, it didn't stop far enough. The trunk slammed on to the ground to signal an end to that, replaced by popping sounds of both the latches and locks of the trunk opposite to the whompa exit he was staking out, not ten meters behind and to the left. For long stubborn minutes, he refused to pay attention, unsure of whether or not he was simply imagining the oddity and far more interested in focusing on a different kind of conversation.
I swear I've met timelier slime molds.
A butterfly passed his beak, almost. He nabbed it anyway, as reets of a particular plumage would.
No, but I'm getting piss bloody bored.
The cans clanged again midair, clanging dully as they hit the sand. Whatever was going on included shuffling and assembling. Cordell cocked his head.
It's not like that time. That time they'd plied themselves aplenty with dirtly matters and some -- oh, aye. The reet perked a little, then settled back to resting when someone else came through the whompa and cast a hesitant, confused look in his general direction. But not quite, and even this person went their way to the door to the desert. Entertain me then, Blue. Just thought someone made me.
The noise from behind had lessened. But now there was whistling, a tune he couldn't place.
Oh, I'm consp(i)cuous now, am I? Not likely, what with this ******** of a *****--
Exasperation won over when the cans started clanging again. He looked over to whatever was going on. The girl (or so he assumed) was setting up a booth of some sort, tying the empty cans to one of two poles between which there was no sign yet. This could have been funny. He wasn't sure.
What? No, just some aspiring roadside attraction messing up a lemonade stand or tripe in Newland. Clan as far as neck tells me. He had to look away -- missing his quarry would only be frustrating, and so he his time having his secure conversation through thought, suitably entertained up until he began to notice more and more passing souls stop to take stock of whatever Soda Girl was up to. He kept busy this way, giving prickly looks at anyone who walked past him to the stand, ignoring most of them unless they passed close enough to warrant a warning peck or flapping. Annoyingly, he wasn't sure exactly what kind of sales jargon Soda Girl was using.
Then he finally looked, when his quarry showed up. That was all right. Now he had to wait until his quarry returned, and then follow him.
He really thought he'd seen it all. Cordell cocked his head and stretched his legs, balancing with his wings. The sight was fascinatingly stupefying, the girl putting on a lame smile of sorts and extolling some or another quality. With his attention fully on the happening, he realized he had been assuming all the talk about sand and the beach had been part of sales gospel to get people thirsty. But he'd seen nobody go past with a drink nor heard the popping of a can, just the clanging of the empties in the wind.
Blue, you will not believe this, but someone is selling sand in Newland.
The bold letters on sign, expertly printed on expensive canvas, stared back at him.
FISH OUT OF WATER
FINE IMPORTED ROSE BEACH SAND FROM CRUCEA IV
COMPLIMENTARY INCENSE STICK
The sight kept his attention for a while until he clicked his beak and turned his head, then all of himself to follow Edward Caxton back to wherever his boss was hiding. His mind was full of laughter at the image transmitted away, and it pleased him.