Tommy Oliver and the Winged Survivor

Prologue

Prologue

October 31st, 1981

A snowy owl as white as the freshly fallen specks of winter sat still on the rickety windowsill of Residence 126, Fifth Lane Avenue, San Angeles, Angel Grove. It sat so still that passersby, in all probability, wouldn't even notice the bird at first glance on the milky siding. In fact, if it wasn't for the juxtapositioning of the owl's golden brown accents and green eyes, the creature would've disappeared absolutely.

The owl sat on the windowsill for hours on end without moving even a feather. It didn't move when a heavy downpour began. It didn't move when a nearby neighbor in a lab coat stood on the street in front of it, and simply stared. It didn't even move when a repulsive, chubby man pulled up and stormed out of his car, shaking the house to its core as he slammed the front door. The owl just sat there until night - waiting.

The street lights suddenly went out on Fifth Lane Avenue, leaving only the shining moon as a guide.

The owl moved.

It flew around the dark square aimlessly, until it narrowed its sight to one specific area. The creature swiftly landed on the ground, and mere meters away, a pale man appeared facing the shadowed house. He appeared so suddenly that time couldn't catch him. The man wore a sleeved and wool robe, billowing with length. On both wrists, he had golden cuffs, and below them were wrinkled hands from age that appeared also on the bottom of his shaved chin to the tip of his bald head.

The man turned his head and zeroed his eyes on the owl. He let out a laugh.

"Can't say I am surprised to see you." The smiling man turned to face the owl, but it wasn't an owl anymore. Gone was the white as snow animal. Instead stood a solemn and tough-looking woman with viridescent eyes. She wore an emerald cloak that did nothing to cover the nude legs under it. Her gold curly hair glowed with the moonlight. In her left hand stood a long wooden staff. She looked as if she hadn't just spent part of her day as an owl.

"There is nothing one can keep from you, Zordon," said the woman as she rolled her stiff shoulders back.

"If it's any consolation, my dear Dulcea, I've never quite seen an owl with your particular likeness, or your solemnity, I might add."

"What is there not to be solemn about, when every magical soul in this country is admitting just that; that they're magical," Dulcea huffed irritably. "The No-Maj-Worthy Excuse Committee is going to have a field day with this. It's all over the no-maj telly."

"Now, now, Dulcea, they are just celebrating the defeat of the darkest wizard of this generation. You would do well to join them."

Dulcea chose to ignore that last statement. "Do you truly believe he's gone, Zordon?"

"Alas, that is what it seems to be," Zordon said softly. "We can only thank our higher-ups, but now my dear, would you like to see the Egyptian coin I've recently collected?"

"The what?"

"My Egyptian coin. I believe it's called a Piastre. So?" He offered the metal object.

"I'm good, thank you." Dulcea shook her head, not at all surprised with his calm exterior despite the situation. "Now then, since You-Know-Who is gone-"

"Dulcea, I thought you of all people wouldn't be afraid to say the name. A simple identification such as Zedd shouldn't be the source of all fear," said Zordon while he flipped around his coin.

"I am not afraid to say Zedd. It's a habit."

"An unnecessary one I'd say. It is just a name."

Dulcea scoffed. "Says the only person he was afraid of."