It is not a story often told nowadays.

The old owl wants it forgotten, and his word is law among our kind. But you're new here, aren't you? You only found out the truth about yourself very recently. Fret not. No matter how long you've known--a day, a week, a lifetime--there is always so much more to learn. About yourself. About this new and bizarre world that surrounds you.

So allow me to tell you this story. Just like me, it is old and dusty; maybe when you're old enough to not care anymore, you'll pass it on.

It was his first night on the job.

Oh, he'd done desk work, he'd studied, he'd made his old man proud. He'd even spread his wings once or twice. But filing away 'misplaced' evidence and going into the field to retrieve it from under people's noses are two very different beasts. He learned that lesson better than most, I should think.

The night was dark. It was windy, and I believe it might have stormed. Either way, he was forced to take to the ground, all alone, in a place unknown to him, with no way to call for help.

That was before smartphones, child; goodness, the headquarters didn't get rid of its rotary phones until the mid-seventies, stubborn old bastards that they are. But that's neither here nor there. Where was I?

Oh, yes. The old owl--young owl back then, just a whelp with bite--had to walk on those spindly legs of his. He wandered for hours, with only the distant lights of the city for guidance, until he saw something approaching. Headlights, you see. He only saw the road under his feet then.

He doesn't disguise himself like we do, you see. We will ourselves back into our disguise and it happens. It's an illusion, really, you can feel through it and see through it, but he's always been a different sort, the same sort as Shelly or Vincent. The flesh needs time to reassemble itself. The feathers need time to rearrange into fabric. And when you rush that process, things start to go wrong.

So it wasn't the usual gentleman who flagged down that car, but a freak.

When he saw himself reflected on the car window, he must have been horrified! He had this goofy grin on his face, from ear to ear, and his face was frozen. He could barely speak. And you know how he is about asking for help at the best of times!

So he talked to the man in the car, asked questions, tried to hint at his need for help without admitting to it. But his mouth wouldn't budge from its smile, and the words came out muffled through his teeth. Half of his words didn't reach the man, and the other half was misunderstood.

So he said, outright, once the exhaustion started biting harder than the shame:

"I need help. I'm injured and cold."

But the man just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded until he drove off. Not a word seemed to register at the time, though it soon became clear that he would remember a lot and understand little.

We all heard the news sooner of later. Oh, it was such an exciting and terrifying week! It was all over the papers: an unflattering caricature of his hastily-disguised face, and a name cobbled together out of the words from his most vulnerable moment. Oh, his old man was furious, he was. He forbid us from talking about it, but then someone leaked his report, and that's how we of the old guard know all the gritty details, straight from the horse's mouth!

Now, don't think that the old owl was a fool, even back then. His next mission went much better. He had changed, hardened his heart. I feel like he lost something that night, something he's been struggling to come to terms with for the better part of a century now. But we all have our baggage, I suppose, our scars.

Not to say he became invisible, though. Oh, no. He was spotted again, many times, but now he was an omen, seen just before accidents started to claim the lives of those who found out about us. Big accidents. Tragedies. Brutality. He became a legend in his own right, and they don't even know they should fear him. You had heard of him, had you not? Even before you became one of us. They made a movie about him and everything.

Even though he's getting there in years, he still takes to the field in person to this day. He's only gotten better at concealing himself--when's the last time you heard of a credible sighting? Most people, he meets wearing his human skin, and they are none the wiser that they're dealing with a celebrity. But when he wants to make a point, or divert attention from some other matter, he still interrupts his transformation halfway, puts on the smile and the dead eyes, and introduces himself.

He becomes the Smiling Man. He becomes Indrid Cold.