The small, blue bird at the vent's edge surveys the room with some trepidation. Even from this angle, Lapis can tell that this is a room to be hidden -- even without being able to see the subject matter of its contents yet. The lack of doors and windows certainly give away the fact that its owner does not intend it to be found . . . and indeed, given how small she's had to become to find her way in the first place, that owner likely isn't human -- or someone unlimited by the constraints of size.
She doesn't want to enter. This isn't the right place for her; it's not what she came looking for. This place is wrong, a tucked away, middle place neither here nor there in the heart of a massive building that almost pulses with stolen life. It feels wrong, it feels contained, it feels like a cage, artificial and suffocating.
Yet she knows she can't leave.
How could she pass this room, knowing it must be important enough to be hidden, and tell the others she left it behind?
She can't. She can't look them in the eyes and tell them that.
She perches at the edge of the uncovered shaft, trying to will herself the strength against the squeezing tightness in her chest. Closing her eyes, she releases, hops, herself again by the time she reaches the floor.
No immediate alarms, anyway. Good. Arms bracing around herself, she drifts to glance over her options, each one in turn: The collection. The diary. The computer.
Normally she would choose the computer; it's what she understands best, less used to spindly human handwriting. But she can't trust that the computer mainframe doesn't have some form of alarm. The collection is interesting too with its pictures, but . . .
In the end, she goes for the volumes of the diary. Drawing a tome at random from its place, giving a last glance back towards the vent, she pulls it open.
no subject
She doesn't want to enter. This isn't the right place for her; it's not what she came looking for. This place is wrong, a tucked away, middle place neither here nor there in the heart of a massive building that almost pulses with stolen life. It feels wrong, it feels contained, it feels like a cage, artificial and suffocating.
Yet she knows she can't leave.
How could she pass this room, knowing it must be important enough to be hidden, and tell the others she left it behind?
She can't. She can't look them in the eyes and tell them that.
She perches at the edge of the uncovered shaft, trying to will herself the strength against the squeezing tightness in her chest. Closing her eyes, she releases, hops, herself again by the time she reaches the floor.
No immediate alarms, anyway. Good. Arms bracing around herself, she drifts to glance over her options, each one in turn: The collection. The diary. The computer.
Normally she would choose the computer; it's what she understands best, less used to spindly human handwriting. But she can't trust that the computer mainframe doesn't have some form of alarm. The collection is interesting too with its pictures, but . . .
In the end, she goes for the volumes of the diary. Drawing a tome at random from its place, giving a last glance back towards the vent, she pulls it open.