Chapter One

Monologue:

And this is where Mrs. Marshe hands the story to me, Angel. No, I haven’t been telling it so far. My life is, despite how she wrote it, not all that mysterious sounding. It’s just how she writes, and she only did it because she wanted to give background info that she was afraid I might gloss over.

Of course, she glossed over some herself. Like who she is, for example.

Mrs. Marshe is my English teacher. Actually, she stopped officially being my English teacher the summer after sixth grade. But, believer in education that she is, she continued tutoring me. She’s the one that wrote the lovely prologue.

Yes, I have wings. Deal with it or put the book down, because I’m not going to have them surgically removed just for you. Yes, I molt. Sucks, but it’s true. And – I can see the question coming – no, I cannot fly.

Here it is again, just to prove your eyes didn’t deceive you: I cannot fly.

And I’d really not like to go into why, mainly because I’ve got no clue myself. I just can’t. But, as Mrs. Marshe reminds me, this is not about the scientific aspect of my life. “It’s about your life, not your genetic makeup,” she says.

And, of course, I have to tell it in third person. Marshe figures that if I tell it in first person, I might become a little too modest about what I’ve done. So, per her wishes, third person it is.

Just for your reading ease, we’ll pick up the thread just after I turned fifteen…

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Email log

From: Angel Valdez

To: Lindsey Marshe; Karson Fraser

Date: Monday, June 5, 2034

Subject: (None)

You know what? I really, really don’t like it here. No offense, of course, but I swear the councilors up here think I’m some sort of wild bird that’s flown into camp by mistake. I am never, ever going to another summer camp again.

*Ever*.

Mrs. Marshe, I’ve been writing stuff down like you said, but there’s not much to write. And it all has to be hand-written. The only reason I can e-mail you at all is that the lodge finally got their Internet running this morning. It’s slower than a snail – dial-up. So I doubt I’ll be able to e-mail you at all very much, but hey, at least I’m writing it all down.

What there is to write down, anyway. Trees and bushes and wildlife and people staring at me wondering what kind of a test tube I came out of. All routine.

GTG. The councilors want me up near the campfire now. Joy.

Angel

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Summer camp. It was about the worst thing Angel had ever been subjected to in his fourteen years of existence. Being in the outdoors would have been great, except that everywhere he turned, someone was staring at him.

Angel trudged up the hill from the lodge building and towards the campfire. Doubtless there would be the usual scary campfire tales, the songs, the s'mores … He would have much rather been on his own, lounging about and enjoying the stillness. But there it was; stillness was just something winged teens didn’t get much of.

Angel took a seat on the log farthest from the fire (and the other people) while still being in the circle. He ruffled the feathers on his wings, dislodging some small bugs that had apparently been considering him a bird rather than a human boy with wings. That was okay – that generally wasn’t the first assumption people made when they saw wings. Generally it was ‘oh, a bird!’ not ‘oh, a kid with wings!’

Angel had been perfectly right; there were the songs first, then the food, then the tales. None of them frightened him – the one about the hook-handed man actually rather amused him. After all, he thought dryly, the two of them could practically have been long-lost brothers: one mutant with wings, one mutant with hook hands. The perfect happy family.

Angel caught the end of another ‘scary’ story, but didn’t quite remember the beginning. He turned his head to keep down a laugh as one of the younger kids shuddered, and stared idly off into the trees.

Just as he was about to turn away, Angel thought he saw something, just out of the corner of his eye. He flicked his head back toward the movement, and thought he saw something –

And then schooled his face into blankness and turned back. What the hell? He thought. Why would there be anybody sneaking around here? Why would anyone even want to be here?

Angel had to laugh a little, deciding that it was about time he went to bed.

Of course, he wasn’t technically supposed to be in the bunk cabin without an adult present, but nobody would deny Angel. Or an angel. Which, fortunately, one of the councilors seemed to think he was.

“Can I go to the cabin?” he asked of that particular councilor, keeping his face completely straight and innocent. “I have a headache.”

She looked down at him, then gave him a grin. “Of course, go ahead.”

Wow. That, thought Angel of the smile, had definite ulterior motives. At least she wasn’t much older than he was – he guessed about seventeen years. Maybe just an intern, rather than a councilor.

It didn’t really matter. He left the campfire and headed for his cabin. At least he’d have his stillness for a half an hour or so.

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Monologue:

If you’ll allow me to foreshadow a little, then I know I should have paid more attention to my eyes. The little prickly hairs at the back of my neck didn’t alert me this time. Maybe they were on vacation. But I can trust my eyes. I just chose not to that time.

And, of course, as it generally does, that got me in trouble.

Foreshadowing over, I suppose that I'd better let you know what was going on – just in case somebody reads this who doesn't already know. Short story, really; Karson and Marshe were probably tired of me, so they convinced me to go to a summer camp. Hiking, nature walks, junk like that.

I honestly thought it might be fun, but I was reconsidering that by about the second day. School had ended (what a relief – I was about fed up with the freshman girl behind me in English who couldn't seem to keep her hands off my wings!) and I was looking forward to a summer spent with my family, who could actually live with the fact that their son wasn't quite normal.

And then I agreed to come to the summer camp, which wasn't all summer – just four days, I think. I never actually got to stay that long, but hey, I was counting the hours till I went home anyway.

I just thought I'd be going home normally, not by means of … well, to keep the suspense up, let's just say that I didn't expect to leave camp via the means I did. I guess Karson and Marshe – and you, too – were lucky that I happened to be sitting up with notebook in hand when those means decided to jump on my head.

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“And he can fly?”

“We have no evidence to the contrary. Our sources say they have never been given strict proof that he can’t.”

Brown eyes gazed thoughtfully at the opposite wall; wheels turned in his head, considering. “What an asset,” he muttered, almost to himself. “But he isn’t old enough yet.”

“Is he not legally an adult yet?"

"Fifteen," sighed the brown-eyed man. "And we can't afford to wait another three years for him to legally come of age. I doubt he’ll even exist by then, unfortunately."

"Mr. Booth,” said his assistant respectfully. “I was going to say that, while our informants are relatively sure he can fly, they aren’t one-hundred percent clear. He is too young for us to legally study him yet, but if we keep ourselves hidden …”

Mr. Booth looked at his assistant and good friend carefully, watching the formal way he held himself. They were in public, after all. “What were you getting at, Michael?” There had to be something big on his friend’s mind. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have inferred something so dangerous. If they were caught following Angel Valdez, they could get prosecuted. Michael was cautious, and unless he had a good, solid reason in mind, he wouldn’t have brought it up.

“Mr. Booth, we think there may be another group of scientists looking at him too.”

“Yes?”

“They are geneticists, and they have had a past record of meddling in mutations, gene splicing and cloning. They, needless to say, are very interested in Valdez.” Michael waited, needing to explain no further.

“With the government?”

“Government funded,” said Michael. “But they have other under-the-table projects that wouldn’t be so readily condoned. Valdez would be part of one of them.”

“Gene experiments?”

“Yes.” Michael paused for a moment before he asked, “Can they legally do that? Gene experiments are outlawed, after all. Can they get the government to condone it under a different name, perhaps?”

“Oh yes, as long as he signs a plethora of consent forms and waivers, they’re completely within their rights. The consent forms would be phony, but what does that matter? Neither Valdez nor the government would know what he was really getting himself into.”

His friend shook his dirty-blond-haired head in amazement. “I’ll get right on it, then. I’ll send a team out to study him, bring back what data we can.”

“Why?”

“Our researchers are curious, like us,” said Michael simply. “And they’ll keep an eye out for the geneticists.”

"Michael," said Mr. Booth, addressing his friend by first name. "Don't test him past his limits. I don't want us to have any suspicion of a murder charge on our hands. And I don't want him hurt. If it looks like he's in trouble, pull him out, explain things and let him return to where he should be. Understood?"

Michael stood quietly and nodded. "I don't want him hurt, either," he said sincerely, then left the room, leaving Mr. Booth behind.

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Angel reclined on the bunk bed – bottom of the two – with the notebook Mrs. Marshe had sent with him open on his knees. He had filled up about half a page and he wasn't too pleased with what he had written, simply because there wasn't much to write in the first place. He had honestly considered writing "I really, really hate it here" and then never opening the book again until he gave it back to Mrs. Marshe. But he knew she would be disappointed – for some reason, she found it endlessly interesting to read what he had written.

And Karson would have a fit – he did not want that. If only there was something worthwhile he could write down, or he would start having to BS his way through.

Which he was not good at at all.

The cabin door squeaked. Angel, unperturbed, didn't look up. He figured it had been about a half hour, and the other boys who shared the cabin with him should be arriving soon. He didn't heed the footsteps across the floor, mostly because they didn't try and make themselves sound silent. When whoever it was began to climb the ladder, he only offered an absent wave that allowed people to know he was awake.

He stared down at his notebook, trying hard to think of something to write next; finally, fed up, he dropped the notebook into the front, deeper pocket of his blue jeans.

Then, without warning, there came a small fft sound, and something sharp buried itself in the side of his neck.

Angel reached up a hand, scowling, but the serum in the dart had shut his brain down before his hand could reach halfway to pulling it from his skin.

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Monologue:

I didn't even think that people were allowed to do that. It happens in books, for God's sake, not in real life. But there it was: a dart full of some kind of knockout drug or whatever, and I was out "like a light."

I don't know what the hell happened after that, or how they got me out of there without the councilor's noticing … But I guess anybody who carries around knockout darts has got to be at least a little resourceful. You can be sure though, that when I woke up I hated my life more than I hated anything else in the world. Ever woken up with a migraine? Yeah. That's about what my wakeup was like.

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Angel, half-conscious as he was, couldn't help a little moan. The first thing he registered was a rustle in the trees and the crunch of footfalls, as if someone was running away. He couldn't quite force his eyes open, though, not yet. He lay there for a moment, trying to breathe. His head hurt, and there was a pain on the side of his neck, like the ones you get after you've been given a tetanus shot, except more concentrated. Damn, thought Angel. He would have spoken it, but his lips seemed gummed shut. What the hell did I fall off of?

Finally, after a long time (or so it seemed – he estimated later that it was probably more like ten minutes), Angel forced his eyes open. The first thing he noticed was the huge evergreen tree looming above him, blocking out much of the light and providing Angel some shade. The sun, high above, was beating down, looking as if it were about noon.

Which didn't compute with Angel's last memories, because then it had been growing dark. Slightly confused, he rolled over on the bed of pine needles where he was lying. It was one of those genuine, nice little forest clearings. There were leaves on the ground, and pine needles, and bugs. Of course. Angel ruffled his feathers irritably and stretched his wings, shaking off the little creepy-crawlies that seemed attracted to his white feathers.

Then there was the pine tree, and … a backpack. Which seemed oddly out of place. It wasn't his, either. It was a relatively good-sized backpack, black and with several compartments.

Maybe someone had left it by accident, Angel guessed, apparently ignoring the more pressing problems for the time-being. For instance, the problem of why the hell he was waking up in the middle of a forest clearing.

Angel crawled confusedly over to the backpack, hoisting the thing onto his lap and opening the largest compartment. The first thing he saw was the food, all nicely packed on top. Then he noticed the raincoat, the compass, and the bottled water. Like someone had been packing for a camping trip and then had dropped the supplies here, just like they were not needed anymore.

But there were no creepy-crawlies on the backpack, he noticed. Nor had it been buried or covered in twigs. Which didn't make any sense.

Angel hated camping, but he was a logically-minded person. And logically, if a backpack had been lying here any longer than he had, it would end up covered in foresty things. If it hadn't been lying here longer than he had, then the person who left it would have had to notice him. And an unconscious winged teenager was generally not the kind of thing you just left behind without a backward glance.

"The hell?" he managed, feeling the point of pain on his neck throb as the words emerged from his lips. None of this made sense. And, at the point where he was now, he was thinking he would much prefer being back at the campsite.

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Email log

From: Angel Valdez

To: Lindsey Marshe; Karson Fraser

Date: Tuesday, June 6, 2034

Subject: (None)

I think my last e-mail lied. I do have something to write about now, but it's not something I'm too happy about. I know it sounds crazy, but would you believe me if I told you I woke up today with a dart wound in my neck, in the middle of a forest clearing and with a backpack full of camping supplies? I'm confused as hell.

I don't think I'll be able to send this for a while. I'm doing this on my cell, and (as you may have guessed) there's no Internet in the middle of the woods. I don't like this. *at all.* Next time you two decide I should go to summer camp, I'll remember what happened last time.

I'm going to try and find my way back to the campsite. At least whoever left the backpack packed a compass. Maybe I'll be able to get myself unlost.

(Very annoyed) Angel

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Monologue:

Yeah, I was scared. But that's why text is so nice: people can't tell if you're freaked out beyond belief.

Like I was. See, we were camping in a forest. And if you're standing in the middle of it, it can seem a lot like that forest goes on forever. No end in sight. Really easy to get lost. And right then, I was about as lost as you could be, with a dart puncture in the side of my throat, a random backpack full of food and supplies, and no fucking clue how I'd gotten there.

I was fifteen. Generally, unless they're a scout, that kind of thing doesn't happen to your average teenager. My phone didn't even get service, so I couldn't call for a search party or whatever.

To put it bluntly, folks, I was screwed.

Not fun. Especially not fun when the sun starts to go down. And I know from personal experience.

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Angel sat down, extremely not pleased with his current situation. The compass had led him wrong, it was painfully obvious by now. He was even more lost than he had been before, and not very happy for it.

He had found another small clearing, rather like the one he had woken in. He dropped down beneath the shade of another huge pine, but this time he was wishing for the sun. It was getting cold as the sun went down, and slowly, the prospect of sleeping out here, in the cold night, was … frightening. Almost.

He wasn't too sure he wanted to do this. At all. But, then, what choice did he have?

The ground was unpleasant – cold, for one, and sharp, ridden with pine needles – but he made the best of it. It wasn't that he was used to such places, it was just that he could handle them. He laid the backpack down like a pillow; uncomfortable and too lumpy, but it was better than lying his head on the pine needles.

The dart wound on the side of his neck throbbed painfully. He turned over, restless, and exposed it to the night air. It still throbbed relentlessly.

And now he fell to wondering how the hell this had happened. Generally, people didn't wake up in forests. Not in real life, anyway. It just didn't happen. And the dart wound – that hadn't been some random mosquito. That had been intentional.

"this isn't some espionage movie," he muttered to himself, slapping away a mosquito on his arm before it could begin to suck his blood. "This is life. People don't shoot people in real life."

If only I could fly, Angel thought wistfully, staring up at the sky from his backpack pillow. The sun had fully set now, and the moon was rising; a waxing crescent. Stars glimmered above him. I could find my way really easy if I could get off the goddamn ground. How can these wings not manage to carry me? I'm not that heavy!

He twitched a white wingtip idly into a more comfortable position. The wings were a nuisance, that was for sure, and even more so now that they weren't actually helping him do anything. They looked for all the world like supporting him would be no problem whatsoever. And then, when he tested them, it turned out that they couldn't lift him at all.

And he had tested them, that was for sure. He'd started at around seven, he figured. And on and on and on. He'd tried running starts, he'd tried jumping into the air, he'd tried just hard-core flapping. Nothing would make them carry him off the ground. A couple of times, he had considered trying to jump off of or out of something, but he also didn’t want to be considered suicidal, and so had decided against it.

It'd be pretty cool to fly, he reflected idly, again fixing his gaze on the star glitters. Especially now, stuck in a forest with a compass that led him astray and only so much food and water.

Angel, needless to say, was not pleased. Not even his cell, stuffed in the front left pocket of his jeans, worked up here. He should have expected it. It hadn't worked since they'd arrived at the campsite – even before. Why should it start working now?

"Now that I actually need it?" Angel's mutinous mutter was heard by no one. And some time later, having stared at the stars for long enough, he drifted off to sleep. The dampness of the ground seeped through his clothes, and one of the water bottles leaked in his backpack. None of this awakened Angel.