Metal Birds

Prologue: France, 1943

Hey folks! The Prologue is going to give you a sneak peek of the intensity of things later on in the story.

There is a CAST to the right in order to clear up which name belongs to which country!

Thank you dear reader, for choosing this novel, and I hope you enjoy!

Note: The FINAL chapter is now the 'Author's Note'. The Author's note also contains the PLAYLIST as well as ALTERNATE COVERS and CREDITS, and very soon, a TIMELINE!

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France, 1943. A glimpse nine years into the story...

He woke with a heavy cough, eyes fluttering open. He smelled dirt and gunpowder. Blood. He coughed again, rolling onto his side, before finding there was no where else he could roll. Dirt walls surrounded him. He sat up, a large blast going off in the distance as he still coughed, allowing his eyes to dart around his surroundings.

His vision was blurry. His head ached. His arm... was it broken? He couldn't distinguish anything in the roar of sounds that rushed upon his ringing ears. He sat there, watching as a man ran forward beside him, the dirt reaching up to his chin as he raised a weapon, readjusted some sort of helmet, and then aimed.

BANG!

His head pounded, throbbed, and he stumbled to his feet. He could feel the feathers of his wings drifting against the loose dirt of the trench floor. The man turned to him, seemingly confused for a moment, before darting off in the other direction.

A series of loud pops reached his ears, and he clasped his hands over them. He winced, recoiling, feeling something hot and sticky on his face. As he stared down at his hands, he saw his hands were bloodied. He dizzily turned to the sky, aware of the planes in the far distance, swooping and bobbing in the air much like he had not too long before now.

His shifted his wings, slumping back down against the wall of the trench as shots rang out, attempting to clear his vision. His head still pounded, but soon the slur of color across his eyes cleared. He stared down at himself.

He could see the rumpled top of a soldier's uniform, which he had torn holes in to make room for his wings, and the satchel cast over his shoulder and strapped against his waist to ensure it didn't fall off during his flight. He wore heavy cotton pants, one knee stitched, and he quickly realized one of his boots was missing. He blinked slowly, letting out a groan as he heard more pops and clatters, and the roar of another explosion rang out behind him.

As his vision cleared, his hearing did as well.

He heard men shouting, a ragtag combination of French and English meeting his ears in a conundrum, and he turned to face over the sandbags cast haphazardly around the edge of the trench. Momentary flashes of light, accompanied by loud and frantic sounds of guns firing. There was no artillery that he could hear.

None that he could hear, he told himself.

He sat up, looking around the trench in the small hope that his boot would be somewhere nearby. It wasn't. But his goggles were. He snatched them, smearing a lense with whatever it was on his hands--blood, maybe --and pulled them onto his head. He found himself sighing, shifting to stand in a crouch, making sure that his dirtied wings stayed close to his back, and that his head of wild blonde hair could not be seen over the edge of the trench. He walked quickly to the left, reaching into his satchel for the small handgun he kept. It wasn't there. He swallowed, his stomach sinking. He wasn't sure what had happened. One moment he was in the air, the next moment he was in a trench, under fire.