[hr][center][h1][b]The Dragonfly[/b][/h1][/center]
[hr]

For Ben, the letter came in a tree.

He didn't bother remembering that much anymore. Most of the time it wasn't worth looking at for more than a few seconds. He liked to think that was good thing- living his life the way he did. No due dates, no one to tell you when or how to do something besides yourself.

It was nice, living like that. For the city of Chicago, things had been peaceful for the past few months. Christmas had come and gone without any trace of tooth or scale. Damselfly was out of town- but most of the world didn't know that. He had no reason to disturb the peace. December rolled around in January, and the only way he could tell was the slight difference in the air's smell. A certain crisp tangent from the regular that only the colder months had that grew stronger and then weaker as winter rolled in and out. He didn't keep calendars.

At least, he didn't use to.

He [i]does[/i] remember finding the letter. It had been an especially cold day and he had been moving through the woods wearing a thick fur coat he had made for himself. He had been returning home from hunting a buck, gun in hand at the time. He nearly didn't notice it amongst the white of the snow around him. But there was no mistaking the fluttering of paper. Paper that had been placed neatly between two branched on the path home. Paper that was sealed nice and tight, and had been treated nicely- as something so small and delicate should be. As his claws had caressed and manipulated the paper folds, in a way he hadn't needed to in months, he came to the realization that it was something he hadn't received in a much longer time.

An invitation.

But that's where he deviated from his regular self. Because he acquired a calendar. And he remembered the date. He remembered sitting in his small log cabin during a winter storm and reading it over and over again. He didn't think about her even once. His mind was too occupied by... [i]this[/i].

...Whatever [i]this[/i] was.

He had, after many attempts tuned his radio to one of the stations. NPR was its name. He could only define it as... chatter. Lots of chatter. Everyone was talking about something called the Coalition. Someone who did this. Someone who did that. Hashtags, whatever those were. It was... overwhelming. He had nearly turned the device off when he heard [i]her[/i] name. [i]She[/i] wouldn't be coming home this year. [i]She[/i] was moving. To the same place he had been... invited too.

And for days he listened. He did his best to understand everything that the station reported on. He had no idea what Instagram was, or how to 'like' and 'follow' them on Facebook (whatever that was). But he did his best to... comprehend the changes that were being made. That were occurring.

This little home he had made himself was quaint and kind. One part of him told him that this was it, the opportunity to... fade away into obscurity. To let the world forget about Dragonfly.

But the other part of him told him that if this letter was a trap, and it probably was a trap, he'd at least go out with a bang. Just like how this version of him came in.

He set out on foot, with his travel packs and maps in hand a day early. He caught an open cart on a train and rode his way into the city during the night. When he arrived in St. Louis, it was early. Some time between 3:00 and 3:30 in the morning. He moved on foot through the alleyways and around the city. But once he reached the suburbs, it was much easier to navigate the quiet morning streets.

And so he walked the sidewalks, wearing his fur coats with his hood up and head down. No doubt looking rather... out of place to any early morning driver. He did his best to avoid interaction with anyone. If his size and disposition didn't turn anyone around, then his tail did. His hands stayed in his pockets, and his tail followed close behind him, raised off of the ground as to not leave any drag marks.

He was the first to enter that funeral home at 5:30 that morning. He was the only one to set his things down and to take a seat in the pew. He was alone in the building for a long time. He turned to watch the sun rise, and only tore his attention from the windows when the interior lights came on.

This isolation was to be expected.

The only men to smell of blood and gunpowder didn't enter the building until nearly one in the afternoon. He made no movements. If they were here for him, they would come to him.

He remembered that this was a... conference.

He wondered how many others who smelt of charcoal and cheap metal. He wondered if they were here to hurt him.

He also wondered if he locked the door to his cabin.

Only time would tell.