Beyond the Stars

Empty Skies

Super Human / supervillain round of LayethTheSmackDown's awesome contest. For convenience of the judges, the pictures used are:

4. juvenile males flying around distant spires.

7. Communal incubator tower.

8. Guardian

9. Manditory image. (Smokes)

10. A wingless chromosome donor.

Empty Skies

Everywhere I looked, I saw evidence of how cold they'd become as a society. Females no longer guarded their eggs, choosing instead to leave their offspring untended in communal incubators so they could continue with their mundane, flightless chores. They gave no care and did nothing when male offspring were dispatched within minutes of hatching.

Adult males, once dominant protectors who graced the skies with their elegance, are nothing more than sperm donors. Their fat, lazy carcasses have no purpose beyond providing the Y chromosome since what remained of my brotherhood fled from the plague that took our plumage. A plague no doubt created by a female to make us as bald as them.

Females demanded those who remain have their fleshy wings removed, claiming them to be useless, cumbersome appendages. The females took what defined us. They made us dirtbound, just like them.

Not even the children escaped. When a fully fledged Vulynx male reached the end of his life cycle, the newborn that replaced him had wings removed before his yolk sack even fully absorbed. No one knew the truth of whether the mutation affected our offspring and the females would not wait long enough to find out if a young male's feathers would grow. Why would they when they want to weaken us, keeping us under their control?

The city skies were empty, devoid of the youthful banter of sparring males circling the Spires and daring the youngest to make the jump into their first flight; a leap into adulthood. The natural order of selection was lost. Chance dictated the strength of future generations.

"Their weakness is my strength," I reiterated the mantra that kept me alive and focused. And with those words, I stretched my quill-less wings, angling them to allow the gusting wind to pass over without blowing me off my feet. I endured years of seemingly endless, pain-filled days hiding in the mountains, healing from wounds intended to elongate and strengthen the flesh of my wings in the hope that I would fly once again.

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes, tucking my arms tight against my chest. I relived the fear of my first jump.

Inhale.

Remembered the thrill.

Exhale.

On the third intake of air, I stretched my wings overhead, reaching so high I stood on tiptoe. Then I fell. The rush of wind over my naked chest chilled me to the bone, but I didn't care. I felt weightless.

Free.

Wings stretched horizontally and my fall became a glide. The breath I didn't realise I'd been holding, left in a rush of relief. I felt almost whole again.

At that moment I knew every cut, every night I endured the bitter cold of winter huddled beneath a blanket in a cave, the infection, the fever, were worth it.

I knew it was my destiny to restore the natural order of our existence. My first task, to rid society of the communal incubators before the annual hatching celebrations. Our world did not need more females.

~*~

The realisation that I should have practised landing came just moments before touchdown on a narrow ledge on the uppermost ring of the tower. With a silent prayer, I flared my wings, hands reaching forward in an attempt to cushion the impact with the window. It went better than my first ever landing, producing only a bump to the side of the head and a few scrapes from the broken glass. It also aided entry into the tower.