An Angel Dies

And Then I Beat the Crap Out of Him

AN: Hey there! This chapter gets a bit serious at the end, just warning. Comment if you like. :)

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Don't worry. You didn't read that last sentence wrong. Yes, I did mention wings and the whole feet-leaving-the-ground shebang.

My name is Nix Price. I am seventeen, I chant to myself as I quickly gain altitude, mimicking my earlier introduction to my Geometry class. I have been a runaway since I can remember. I have wavy dark blonde hair and blue eyes. I am inhumanly light for my age.

I have wings.

My wings, in case you're curious, are almost the same shade as my hair, but a little darker, with tawny/amber feathers mixed in sporadically with the light brown ones, and some faint tan stripes barring the feathers, darkening the wingtips. I've never really sat down and measured them, but when fully extended, my wingspan is at least sixteen feet across.

I don't know why I have wings, but even when I was little, I knew that I was different, a freak. Maybe I was experimented on at birth. Maybe I'm a clone or something super-scientificky like that. Maybe I'm just a genetic anomaly. (That's my main theory.)

I try not to think about it too much because it, admittedly, frightens me and I prefer not to be frightened.

Flying for me is a release, you could say.

With my scarf trailing behind me in the air and my goggles protecting my eyes from the rush of cool air, I probably looked like an old-fashioned aviator, except my 'plane' was actually just my wings.

You're most likely thinking, how does having wings feel? My back and shoulder muscles are very developed, strong enough to pull my wings up and down, and my body muscle index is very high. I have little to no body fat. I'm pretty sure my bones are hollow, too, though I've never gotten an X-ray to check or anything. I've also concluded that my lungs are different than a normal person's, able to extract more oxygen from the air and circulate it through my body at a faster rate. They still work functionally in extremely high-altitudes.

The wind rushed at me steadily from my speed, parting into streams as my wings powerfully cleaved the air. That's why I tie my hair back. Otherwise, it whips around my face and gets so tangled I'd rather take a lawn mower to it than try to work out the snarls. The clear-lens goggles protected my eyes from bugs and the wind, allowing me to keep them wide open and clear so I could enjoy the view.

Flying possesses a certain rhythm to it. Up, down, up, down, breathe in, breathe out. You can't mess up the beat, otherwise you falter and the rhythm breaks and you fall. Flying isn't as effortless as it looks, either. When I faced a strong wind, my wings strained to push me forward, and yes, they could get tired, especially on a windy day. Luckily, though my wings were built for coasting.

A bit of research revealed that my wings were passive soaring wings. Passive soaring wings have long primary feathers that are spread out. This creates slots, which help me catch thermals and reach amazing heights. Imagine an eagle or hawk's broad wing shape, and you've got it.

I hit a thermal a minute later and shot up in the sky, wobbling slightly as I maintained my balance. I could feel the warm air pressing on the undersides of my wings, filling them like sails. It felt amazing.

I looked down. A thrill of adrenalin shot through my veins at the dizzying sight of the glowing city spread out beneath me. The city was gorgeous at night from a bird's eye viewpoint, I admitted to myself. The thousands of multi-colored lights twinkled beautifully, and with my much sharper than normal vision, I could easily see the glowing neon signs and lit-up billboards on top of some of the low-set buildings. There were still people outside, scurrying down the wide sidewalks as if it was still the middle of the day. Cars' headlights glowed in the dark like hundreds of tiny creatures with illuminated eyes.