The Academy: it's not july yet.

He hears the call in the heart of the Academy while he’s resting, far away, far far away in the distant sand of the desert. Ni’Srilan, they called it. Durden doesn’t particularly care what the name of it is. It’ll still just be a desert to him, the same way that Jaeger Reef was just an ocean. It’s the same way that the Range will just be mountains and stream, it’s all the same in the end. Names don’t really ever make a difference, if you think about it. Names mean that you care. And he doesn’t.

But he answers the call of his first student, his four legs carrying him in a tiger-like prowl as he meanders through trees and flowers to reach the strangely colored other opposite him, and Durden tentatively offers his muzzle in a mock sort of courtesy. Funny how he ended up a scholar; he’s not really scholar-like either. If you ask me, he shouldn’t be anything. Power entitles people to think that they’re worth something. Durden’s not. Not really.

His lips are in a permanent, nonchalant smile, and a single fluted ear flickers forward in inquisition. “That’s me,” he says, the words slipping casually off of his tongue. His flea-bitten body hums in the dark of the afternoon, and his Sight slips in softly, like an invisible glove, into Gecko’s mind; probing, poking, sifting through memories and ideas. Durden nearly shakes his head in amusement, at the things he Knows -- and then shrugs it off.

“So, Gecko,” he continues, lazily, “why are you here?”

The answer is obvious. But Durden’s not always looking for obvious answers to obvious questions. You know.