The Winged [HIATUS]

Chapter Fourteen

"More than anything else the sensation is one of perfect peace mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost, if you can conceive of such a combination."  -Wilbur Wright

[ C H A P T E R   F O U R T E E N ]

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I am awakened at nine o’ clock the next morning by someone screaming, “DIE, DOUCHEBAG!” in the room below.

I roll out of bed and slink down the stairs, peering around the corner into the living room. Logan is leaning off the edge of the futon, furiously tapping away at the controller in her hands. A series of gunshots and explosions dance across a massive television screen. “That’s right!” she hollers, twirling the control stick with her thumb. “Run back to your buddies!” Another explosion. “Is there something on your face? Oh, right! It’s PAIN!”

“You seem really into that game,” I comment, leaning against the wall.

“Call of Duty,” she says, not sparing me a glance.

“You playing online?”

“Ye— OH, YOU DID NOT JUST THROW A GRENADE AT ME!”

I grimace and stride over to the futon, resting my arms on the soft black fabric. “Can I watch?”

“Do you even have to ask?” she replies. I observe for a while as she accumulates a kill-streak of epic proportions, sending an army of vicious, bloodthirsty dogs barreling across the board. When the results are finally displayed, it is revealed that Logan won the match for her entire team.

“Jesus, you are good at that,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“Yeah. Wanna play?” She gestures toward the television.

“Nah, looks like you’re doing fine on your own.” I do, however, take a seat next to her on the Gaming Futon.

Logan opts to go another round and slides on her headset. “Watch this,” she snickers. When the game begins, she purrs in her sexiest voice, “Hey, boys.”

“Ah, hell! There’s a chick on here!”

“Why don’t you give the controller back to your boyfriend, sweetheart?”

A sadistic grin creeps all the way across her face. Onscreen, she races forward and annihilates three of her opponents at once in a flurry of flames and button combinations. “Next time you call me a chick,” she says, “I’ll impale you.” Then she unplugs the headset and continues to deal out death and destruction.

I hear a pitter-patter of feet above my head and turn to see Tempest peeking at us, rubbing the sleep from her bleary eyes. “What’s going on down here?” she mumbles, dragging her bare feet across the wooden floorboards.

“Logan is working out some issues,” I answer, just as Logan exclaims, “BOOM! HEADSHOT!”

“What game is she-”

“COD,” I reply, scooting over to make room for Tempest. She plops down on the Futon and eyes Logan’s Xbox with suspicion.

“War games promote violence,” Tempest drawls.

I gasp. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Exhibit A.” She casts a sidelong glance at Logan.

For the first time I notice her occult, interlocking henna snakes all the way up her arms, not at all matching the smiling snowmen that decorate her pajamas. Her chocolate eyes appear to be glowing red as she mashes buttons. “Video games didn’t make me violent,” she says, not missing a beat. “I’m just a naturally violent person.”