Chapter Text
Most look upon me and see a straight-laced subordinate, intent on his master’s wishes. They see a rigid back and stiff shoulders.
They do not see the knives and paper tags hidden beneath my sleeves. They do not see my slightly bent knees, prepared to do battle in a split-second. They do not see my fingers darting for concealed weapons when I am surprised. They do not see a predator. They do not see the true Howard Link.
I am Crow. I view the world from my high-wire perch, the shadows my midnight feathers. From here I observe the world in all its ugliness. I watch as gore spatters the cobbles, children rot in alleys, and depravity consumes all life. Then I swoop down from my roost to feast on what remains. Such is the life of a Crow.
Merciless, brutal, and vile.
Allen Walker, curious specimen he is, sees these things. The other Exorcists are blind to the danger I present. They only see what all the others see: harmless little Link. Walker, and Walker alone, is conscious of the threat I pose to him and all he represents. And, crazy specimen he is, flaunts what little authority he bears. He wolfs down far more food than is healthy (parasitic-type or not, 32 sticks of dango every meal is not a good idea), heedlessly drags me all across headquarters, ignores nigh every word I say against him and his cause, and does all he can think of to irk and frustrate me.
All the more reason to slip back into my cloak of shadows so that I may observe his antics from a distance.
Although, at times, my roost can be a rather unbefitting location—such as lying atop a pallet on the cold, stone floor. From this unusually low locus, I observe one who, infuriatingly, possesses the higher ground in the form of the only bed in the room. A quiet, obscure challenge of my authority meant to irritate me—an effective method. Nonetheless, even from this inapt position, my avian instincts continue to function perfectly. I hear him stir. The sheets whisper sharply as he twists beneath them; the mattress irritably groans as he turns, frantic; the bed frame creaks crossly with the jerky shifting of weight; the boy himself whines, pained. And all at once, the quartet comes to a head with a gasp as Walker shoots upright.
Silence but for the gasping pants emanating from the shadowed figure above and a systematic ticking. I wait.
The stoic clock standing by the door tocks on, methodically counting down.