Sanscest One-Shots & Short Stories

Flight

   Cross was born with wings. A magnificent set of wings that stretched out over 20 feet. They had beautiful snow-white feathers, though his longer, primary ones were striped with a thin purple, then a thick black tip. He took great care of them, always cleaning the case they were hidden away in.

   His back hurt like hell, the extra limbs having been sensitive since day one. They were even more painful now, unable to lay on his back without feeling like a million needles were stabbing right into his scapulas. He missed his morning flights, where he'd get to have the wind in his face, and it ruffling through his feathers, lifting him higher and sending him above the clouds. He's too busy for his morning flights now.

   Cross never told the others about his wings, having kept them hidden well. Sometimes one would be suspicious, but they never pried. It was just Cross being weird again, they'd mutter. He wishes he could tell them the truth. He doesn't want to show anyone them, however, not wanting someone to get mad, or jealous.

   Clink. Clink. Clink. Almost finished. Tomorrow he had a free day. He had to finish this project so that he could have the whole day to himself.

   Cross stares out over the balcony, eyeing the clouds above as they blended with the morning red of the sunrise. He was going to fly this morning. He wasn't busy today. The others weren't either, so if they saw him, it was okay. No missions to distract them.

   His wings slowly stretch out behind him, slightly cramped with the small balcony. The mechanical clinks and cracking went unnoticed by the soldier, and he jumped, wings stretching out to their full length. One powerful flap, and then two. He was soaring once again above the ground, feeling the wind against his face.

   Nightmare looks down at the bloody, mangled corpse of the monochromatic angel. He looks away, single eye closing to dispel the image of metal wires and gears sticking out of purple-stained feathers. He couldn't bare to look at the metal that attached the large appendages to the other's back, and how it had come loose and stabbed through his sternum, through his soul. He was going to ignore the strange markings on the other's shoulders, ones that resembled the edges of these death traps. He was going to ignore how life-like they were, or the strange blueprints up in his room that detailed the mechanisms that seemed to substitute hollow bone.

   Surely, wherever Cross was going, he hopes that the other had made it. And that he was flying with that big goofy smile on his face, like when someone cracks a bad joke, or gives him a chocolate bar.

   Nightmare turns his head to the sky, swearing he saw a shadow along the ground, but seeing nothing there. "..... have a safe flight, Cross."