Redhawk Caldera have you tried flushing the cache?

Truthfully, he hadn't heard the question, either. Nightjar was very good at very few things, and almost all of those involved action rather than talking. He wasn't an ideal strategist because thinking through problems took too long for him. He wasn't an ideal hunter because he only had half his sense of hearing and, if he was honest with himself, the effort to make up for that was too great. He couldn't advise anyone to save his life. And he was a terrible listener, just like his mother before him.

So he went on blissfully unaware that he hadn't answered Phox's question, though he was tuned back into the conversation when it turned back to their parents. "It's okay," he offered, "dad talked too much too." In fact, almost everyone talked too much for what he preferred, but it was Wildfire and Peregrine who did the most talking. Both were gone now and while he missed them both, he didn't really miss their flapping lips. "You're kinda like him but not too much," he pointed out, but left it at that. Phox didn't seem to have Peregrine's crude sense of humor, and Nightjar was thankful for that, because he'd never understood it anyway.

"Towhee's like mom," he said, "only mom wasn't deaf, but she could be really mean." That wasn't to say that Towhee was really mean, just that she wasn't nearly as forgiving or accepting as Peregrine was. Nightjar was even more like Fox, but he lacked some of her traits, too. Really, he was more like a rock than anything. A rock that thought weak wolves were better off dead. "She punished dad a lot," he reflected, "but dad kind of deserved it. He wasn't very smart."

That was rich, coming from one of their stupidest offspring, but he meant in the natural sense moreso than the intelligence department.