The Archangel (Avengers Fanfic)

Chapter Four

I stepped outside of the compound area, the building was in the middle of nowhere and sported its own hangar and runway. Good, I didn't have to worry about injuring bystanders. I turned myself to metal, the bland grey with the red star on my chest totally unflattering, and stretched my wings out to their maximum length. I grounded myself to the tarmac and started moving my wings as if I were flying, intentionally stirring up the dust and dirt enough that I could barely see through the cloud I had created.

The little particles ripped through the paint, putting cracks all throughout my body that otherwise wouldn't have cracked. In some places, that was enough to peel small sections of the paint off the metal, in others, not so much. Once I was satisfied that it had cracked all it was going to crack, I stilled my wings and brought my fist down on the pavement, creating little fissures that stood out from the smooth cement.

That movement was enough to free a good section of my arm and torso from the paint, but not a lot else. I shook out my wings as I stood, watching as paint fell from them like water when they got wet. I twisted and contorted my body in as many ways as I could think of to help slough off the paint. God, I hated that paint, always so confining, and with it, I couldn't form my helmet, not to mention the color.

Once I had cracked off as much of the paint as I could, I stretched out my limbs, now back to their natural metal colors of gold and nearly white silver that gleamed so brightly in the sun that I could have been mistaken for a proper angel. I basked in the warmth of the sun on my metal skin for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of my skin free from that stain.

The dust was nearly settled, it had remained in the air after I had stilled my wings, but now that it was lifting, these Avengers as I found they were called, would be in a perfect line of sight for yours truly. I didn't want to deal with their questions or the implications of the answers, I just wanted to be free for a little while, even if it was from my responsibilities. So, I straightened up, allowed my helmet to form over my head—a feeling I dearly missed in flight, do you know how hard it is to fly with the sun in your eyes?—lifted my wings into their ready position and launched myself into the sky at speeds no normal human could reach and survive without technological aid

I flew straight up, high enough that everything below me was as small as an ant, higher still until I could see the curvature of the earth, and then even higher, high enough where I could no longer breath and I started seeing black spots. Only then did I pull my wings in tight to my body and allow myself to plummet straight for the ground, doing flips and spins, cutting through the air as if I had been born to do it. And indeed, I felt as if I had been.

Now that I was capable of accessing my helmet, I didn't need to worry about my ears popping or even bursting, about the windburn I was subject to at such high speeds, about my eyes handling the force of the wind and the glare of the sun. That paint was just another tool Hydra used to keep me in check, knowing that without it, I would be far more powerful, capable of greater things, things that might have caused me to rebel against them if given half the chance. I didn't blame them for it, I was vengeful and petty, I would have easily turned against them if I had been given the opportunity and the choice to do so.

I almost wished Hydra was still active, just so I could destroy it myself. I fell into a nosedive, daydreaming that I would smash straight through one of their facility's walls, cutting down everything and anyone in my path with the razor edges of my wings, destroying everything, killing everyone, and then watching the facility crumble. There I go again, wishing Hydra was still around.

I broke out of my daydream as I plummeted through the clouds, a nice layer of condensation gathering on my metal skin, just enough to wash away any remaining trace of the paint but still I allowed myself to fall. It was exhilarating, the rush of the wind, the quickly approaching ground, even that little voice screaming at me to pull up. Wait, what voice?

Looking around quickly, I spotted the red and gold suit that belonged to Tony, a birdman whose wings worked like a jetpack that I hadn't met before, and Wanda, all telling me to pull up. I rolled my eyes, they were ruining my fun. "She won't survive the impact, Wanda do something!" Birdman shouted. For the love of Pete. . . I thought as I rolled my eyes, they might not survive the impact, but even if I didn't pull up, I still would—the joys of being indestructible.

At this point, I just wanted to show off a bit. It wasn't until nearly 200 feet from the ground that my wings shot out, catching an updraft as I made a large loop, and gently set my feet back on the ground. "Are you insane?" Tony asked as he landed next to me.

I retracted my helmet, then answered, "Quite possibly, though irrelevant, that stunt I just pulled was no more than a bit of fun that you interrupted, so thanks for that."

"Do you often have fun by risking your life? If so, that's fine, just make sure I'm not trying to save it next time." I quickly found myself liking Tony's snarky personality. "By the way, you look like a bird." Less so now.

Irritated, I crossed my arms and remarked, "and you look like a jackass, your point?" I left him there on the tarmac with his mouth open in shock. "I hope you catch flies."