Clipped Wings

Chapter 1: Distractions

Ira knew he was looking at a disaster, and all he could do was brace himself.

The short, gangly creature at their feet was mostly arms. They had four of them, two of which drug the ground as they seemed to sprout from its ribcage. The face was all eyes –like a spider, round cheeks and a knobby chin. Ira couldn't stand to look at it for long. But it was those eyes that were the trouble. He wasn't sure if it were this way for all Humans, but it was for Myghal. Standing besides Ira, listening to the gurgling coo of the imp, Myghal was a living embodiment of a mid-air collision.

From beneath his hood, Ira watched the way Myghal shifted his weight, hands struggling to find their place as he moved them from across his chest, to his sides, to his belt. Each movement caused his armored suit to clack as if every plate had to rearrange. Each time Myghal glanced from the Imp to Ira, and back again.

How many times, Ira had lost count.

However, he was sure the time between shifting and glancing was growing closer together. Some gradual heightening of stress as Myghal struggled to tell the Imp to piss off. Then there was a sigh.

Here we go.

"Maybe we should—"

"No," Ira firmly swiped out with a hand as if to cut the conversation before it could begin. It caused his shoulder cloak to flutter out, making the Imp flinch.

"But, Ira, he needs our help. Look at him, he's wasting away."

"This just in, they all are. Stars are dying out –entire galaxies. Places like this get overrun with refugees and supply cannot keep up with demand. If you feed one, you'll have to feed them all." They went over this every time they ported somewhere. It was making Ira think Myghal hadn't actually traveled all across the universe like he said.

Sensing Myghal was gaining any shred of rationality, the Imp preyed on Myghal's weakness. Clasping it's smaller, grubby hands, it stepped closer to him to flash those big eyes. Ira made a dramatic motion of reaching for his curved dagger, adding a glare for good measure. The Imp backed away again.

"Don't," Myghal scolded, "he's terrified."

"And without any money," Ira reminded. "We don't get anything for free, why should he?" Myghal scowled, shaking his head before taking a knee. "Besides, Zabiri is waiting on us. We have what we came for, it's time to go. Come on. She doesn't like to wait." Ira pulled his cloak back over his shoulder, turning towards the port.

"You know where the skiff is."

Ira nearly lost his footing, sand rolling beneath a boot at how quickly he stopped. Taking a moment to consider what Myghal said, he paused before turning back. "What?"

"I said, you know where the skiff is." Myghal repeated, just as cheerful.

"You aren't coming?"

"Not yet. I'm going to help him out." There it was. His stupidity. As bright and shining as any blazing star left in the night sky. So far, it was what Ira hated about him the most. For coming from an enslaved species, Myghal didn't have a clue as to how to preserve himself.

With a chuckle, Ira clasped his hands, giving them something to do besides strangle someone. "That's funny, because –if I recall– you're supposed to be helping me. Isn't that your job?"

"It's not like the last star will burn out tomorrow. We have time, Ira." Myghal lifted the grubby creature to a shoulder, standing with a smile. "Let's get you something to eat, huh buddy?" It whirred as they continued towards the market. Ira couldn't believe it. Myghal didn't even bother a glance back to see if he followed, didn't ask. Leaving with the Imp. Ira slapped a hand over his face, massaging the bridge of his nose.

Myghal knows damn well I don't know how to fly the skiff.

He growled, shuddering with rage before following after.

This job was just some other kind of torture, he knew it from the start. The premise sounded good: steal a weapon from the Cites, ruin their rule and reputation, possibly revive the universe from the slow suffocation of its heat death. And the reward? Freedom. He could finally go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Except, there was Myghal.

That made it torture, clear the deal had been too good to be true. They could be half way to the Citian strong hold by now, but no. Instead, they were wasting time and money coddling a dirty Imp. Myghal treated it like a youngling, as if it were helpless. Ira knew better. This was a leech.

"Which would you like, little buddy?" Myghal cooed, pointing to two different hanging bunches of dried meat. Ira rolled his eyes with a slouch against the stall wall. His only saving grace was the fact the sooner they could leave, the sooner they could get on with the job and part ways. Never having to see Myghal again was the light at the end of a very deep, very dark tunnel.

"There he is! Thief!"

Ira lurched upright, searching for the accuser. By the time he spotted the winged soldier he remembered he hadn't stolen anything. Not yet anyway. For once he was innocent.

"Stop right there!"

But they were pointing at them. Right at them. At Myghal. Soon there were three, charging through the crowd, massive, feathered wings sending people hurrying out of the way. Cites. The Imp gave a squeal, wriggling from Myghal's grip and darting away.

It isn't us they're after, it's that Imp! He yanked on Myghal's arm, dragging him into a sprint.

"What did you do?" Myghal accused.

"Me? I didn't do anything. It was your 'little buddy'!" The market became more congested forcing Ira to take a side street. He knew from experience Myghal was fast, good even for his size, but he wasn't quiet or graceful. Leaps and bounds that Ira could make, he couldn't. And just as easily as Ira could leave him behind, if Myghal was captured, the job was over. If Ira returned empty handed, there would be no reward.

A shadow streaked overhead, the giant wingspan of a Cite in pursuit. There was no outrunning Cites, and with the entire planet overran by their control, they couldn't fight them all off. They would have to hide.

"Pick it up!" Ira warned, sliding into another alley. Rounding back, he knew if they could cross into the market crowd again, they could lose those in the sky and find a place to lie low. The lane turned and ahead was the bustle of shopkeepers and the cover they needed. A Cite soldier in glints of gold armor slammed down in front of them, blade stripped and wings outstretched. Ira dropped in a slide, missing the swipe of their sword and kicking off of their foot.

Myghal yanked on his cloak, putting him on his feet. They were off again, retreating only to find they were cutoff from their only exit. Towering, winged Cites blocked the road, weapons brandished, armor gleaming. More landed on the roofs above. Surrounded. If they were captured, they'd be killed. If they fought back, they'd be killed.

Ira stripped his blade.

A sharp blow to the back of the head made his vision blurry. His legs went weak, dumping him to his knees. The world went muffled, as if there water filled his ears. It made it impossible to hear the Cite's orders, Myghal giving a pained sound. Ira lost the grip on his dagger, vision going dark before he hit the ground.

Damn Imp.