There were too many sources of sound at once: Birdie behind, justifiably chiding Cress for risking her work, a single syllable entreaty from Gray, a voice lower to the ground which sounded like several miles of unpaved road, and Coro, screeching over all of it. Cressida winced, missing Roger and his sight to help make sense of if all. A familiar relief of callouses and scars told her she'd contacted a hand she'd not been seeking. Her face slightly downcast, she turned features tensed by warring hints of confusion and indignation toward Gray. Cast (regrettably) as a Disney princess, she was the sort to chew out her fairy godmother for daring to impose a curfew, enforced by the excessive drama of the whole 'carriage into a pumpkin' bullshit. Frustration cut a line between her brows. She could think of no measure by which she was any better than her reforming friend; he killed to survive, he possessed a form unacceptable to human society, he effected people in unpleasant, preternatural ways. So did she. Denying him help and care landed so wrongly with her that it bordered self-hatred. However, after a year of survival, trust, partnership -whatever they wished to call it- her allegiances were solid, tipping the scales after a moment of indecision. Still, every step she took toward Gray's side hit like a small betrayal, a razor-thin shank between the ribs.
Now was not the time for nonsense. Like a damaged ship with flooded compartments, her posture shored up as she shut off access to such harmful things as reactive emotions threatening integrity and efficiency, leaving her professional and personable as a tax audit.
"Take it," she agreed, enmeshing her fingers with Gray's so that she might see Birdie and Jaime in the blue light of Coro's continued huff. Together or split, they could leave unharrassed. Gray could talk Coro back to the Menagerie, and she could ... on second thought … The bird didn't seem to have been amenable to conversational persuasion thus far. The hand in Gray's pulsed once, gently; a good time to go. Cress whistled up at the Thunderbird: a shrill, strong sound to smoke the tires on a Manhattan taxi cab. The bird's head swiveled with a twinkling of built charge. Recalling useful lyrics took no effort; sung under her breath, this choice had been handy in bars and crowded places to discourage would-be conversationalists times beyond counting. As though this were the most normal scenario in the world, she lifted her head and sang to the bird;
"You go your own way Go your own way You can call it Another lonely day You go your own way Go your own way"
The Fleetwood Mac hook issued in the same strangely harmonized, layered vocals as the Gamayun's spoken voice, the 'can' dropped from the lyrical composition to turn a suggestion into a command. Coro twitched, ruffled her feathers, canted her head sharply to one side then the other, glared at the tent-wrapped human who'd previously been a target, then squawked testily and unfurled tremendous wings. The abused Shooting Gallery beam groaned, relieved of her weight when she took flight. Cress pulled a face, pleasantly surprised but not willing to jinx it by saying so.