you’re crashing but you’re no wave
@avthyunwoo
he tries to fly away from them, the men with dark eyes and loud guns, tries to fly smart, tries to fly fast. years and years of training ( the men in lab coats telling him to go faster, push harder, die sooner ) have not done very well to coach him for urban survival, operating between the skyscrapers, hollow buildings like the bones in his body. he is ill-prepared for being hunted and he can’t help but wonder what exactly something like him is any good for if he can’t even escape a bullet.
it wanders through his mind, a split second of irony, of remorse and yearning; what would it have been like to have been granted speed instead of flight? could he have been a greater opponent? a better person? able to step outside his apartment without the familiar fear of exactly something like this happening to him? the full moon yawns above him, apathetic to his terror, to the shouts, the car horns blaring, the screeching of tires, apathetic to everything she sees in the world below. he wishes for some cover, but there are no clouds out, no smoke, nowhere to land. he needs to get higher, but the higher he goes, the greater chance of them spotting him.
he takes a chance on it, bets his speed and wingspan against the accuracy of their bullets, climbing up into the atmosphere, reaching for the stars.
but he loses.
the bullet bursts through his left wing, the pain instantaneous, the fall inevitable. he may as well be on fire, the velocity with which he is crashing towards the earth, just as devastating as though he were a real falling angel. or, more likely, a comet. he tries to extend his other wing, anything to help break this coming collision with the ground, uncertain if he’ll survive it, panicking and spiraling as the sky closes to him.
he lands on grass, on dirt, at an angle thankfully, which doesn’t crack his neck or his spine, but plenty of bones do crunch on impact and he can feel each and every one of them. he halts in a pile of blood, feathers, and broken limbs, his screams echoing through the midnight-colored neighborhood. his right femur is shattered, several ribs poke into his lungs, wrist broken, one wing bone cracked and dislocated and the other bleeding from the bullet hole. he grits his teeth, tears streaming down his face, unable to be silent but also unable to remain still, fear and adrenaline coursing through his body and propelling him to crawl and drag and claw his way through the grass, inch by inch.
they’re after him. he has to find somewhere safe.
