You approach the monster, your eyes straining against the darkness of the sewer, your nose filled with the pungent smell of human waste.

The monster is a gigantic bird, except its face—her face, you correct yourself—is human. It’s covered in tears.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Why do you care?” the bird screeches, and now you realise that despite her considerable size when compared to a human, she is nevertheless rather small for a yuda. Her voice sounds very young.

“Sometimes when I’m sad, it helps me to talk about it,” you say, wondering internally if it’s the copious amounts of alcohol you’d consumed that are prompting you to overshare.

The yuda sniffles again, wiping her nose with her wing, the snot glistening on her waxy feathers. “If you must know, the other yudas keep bullying me because I like to collect human things. They found my stash and they called me a human lover.”

“What things?”

The yuda shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Trinkets. I just think they’re so small and cute, you know?”

What do you do?