The Last Wild Angel
Title: The Last Wild Angel
Summary: When angels fall, they burn. And sometimes, they’re caught.
Author's Note: Title from a sport’s clothing brand. What can I say, the plot bunny strikes from the most unusual places.
Word Count: 1277
ETA: Crossposted to original_fic ( here) and fictionwriters ( here) on June 26, 2010.
The Last Wild Angel
We found it in the hayloft of an abandoned barn. Kinda makes you wonder whether the poor thing knew we were coming. Or maybe God, if he's still watching, loves irony.
It was a recon job: we hadn't set off for a hunt in months. No sightings, you see. No rumours, no signs, no nothing. We were running low on food and shelter, so when a kid shows up going on about a farm a handful of clicks away, you don't sit around.
Even so, we went armed.
***
You know them by the smell of ash.
We were finishing up with the farmhouse, packing what little food hadn't gone green and tossing out the rest. Some were upstairs, going through the wardrobes and bathroom cabinets, others were walking the perimeter and checking out the building's infrastructure.
The place we were holed up a few miles south wasn't bad, but if this farmhouse could handle a few souls, it would ease matters. We're a pretty big group in total, but that's only when the smaller groups - the friends, the families, the brothers-in-arms - agree on all going the same way. We tend to spread out, lose touch with each other for months, then regroup - in the winter, or when an "all hands on deck" call comes out through the grapevine. Still, it's always a good idea to have an extra house or two. You don't want all your firecrackers under one roof.
The call came up as I was checking the expiration dates on a stack of cans. (They were past by half a year at least, but we'd risk it, come winter.) You could hear the whisper coming closer, going from one throat to the next in a long chain of perfect telephone.
Blazer in the barn.
I may never have hunted with this exact group before, but we'd all been in similar situations enough to know the general drill. All of us with loot dropped our bags on the porch and joined the others already walking towards the barn. At the doorway, a group splintered off to surround the barn while the rest of us double-checked our weapons and prepared to go inside. Although we still used traditional arms - guns, steel and wood in some form or other - what really mattered was the right water, the right words, and a give 'em hell attitude.
Out here, the acrid smell of smoke was weak, a faint tug at the back of the throat, but we all recognized the pull. I wrapped a strip of fabric around my fists, stuck another strip into my waist loop and followed the others through the doorway.
Inside, the smell of heat and ash nearly choked me, sticking to the roof of my mouth and clawing its way down to my lungs. My eyes watered though the air was clear and I choked down a cough. It's a pure sensorial confusion: your body smells smoke, feels heat, knows in every fibre that there's a roaring fire closing in, but there's nothing there.
Nothing but a Blazer.
The smell was strongest in the farthest corner of the barn, up where a sorry excuse for a hayloft held a couple of square bales. I kept expecting to see flames burst out and had to fight the familiar shakes.
Mind over matter. There is no fire.
I tightened the rag around my fists, tugging on it with my teeth. Beside me, one of the guys pulled out a water bottle and started dousing his own wrapped-up hands, muttering a litany that's lost all meaning, just become a string of words and a habit. I followed suit, along with the others in the barn.
There was a ladder leading up to the hayloft, a rickety old thing with a couple nails sticking out and its planks lying in every direction but flat. Since I was closest to it, I went up first. It played hell on my hands, the palms still a bit raw and pink from a burn. (It'd been my fault: one of the little firecrackers we've got stored decided to remember what it was like to be a Blazer for a while to prove me a point. Don't piss off the 'cracker, was the point, they still burn.)
I reached the top of the ladder and hauled myself carefully onto the hayloft. The ladder immediately began to jigger as another set of hands made their way up.
Up here, there was still a hint of sweetness and warm summer days under all the ash, the bales of hay still dry enough to have kept this long. A hint, though, that was all.
If there had been a real fire up here, it would have been a wall of flame and smoke, thick blankets of ash swirling everywhere and a heat strong enough to singe your eyebrows. I stifled a cough, tried to breathe shallow although there was no smoke, and wiped my face with the wet rags around my fists. They came back clean, soot-free, as I knew they would, but it still gives me a jolt every time.
It was easy to find. Like a homing missile, all we had to do was turn towards the heat and keep going. My eyes watered from the sensations of heat and fire and smoke, my lungs felt like they were bleeding, but I kept going.
It was huddled up behind a bale, wedged between it and the sloping roof. There was an outline of ash - real ash - around its body. Stray scraps of hay were lying around it curled, splintered and blackened. I glanced at the wood above it and saw that it too was dark with soot. The guy that'd come up behind me gave a low whistle at the sight and took out a water bottle, choking out the end of his whistle with a whooping cough.
It was a new Blazer.
This wasn't one of those that'd fallen from the heavens back during the Great Not-Meteors-After-All Shower, when Blazers had spread their stench to every corner of the world as they ran or fell or failed. This one hadn't gone up in flames in retaliation or despair, hadn't hid and dwindled in the forgotten corners, hadn't been caught, subdued and used as a little Firecracker.
This one was wild.
I took a step forward, holding my breath because, even if the smoke wasn't real, it stung like hellfire. I'd never roped a new Blazer, even back when they'd just fallen. The ones I'd caught - tired, dispirited, sorry excuses of heavenly creatures - had still been fire personified even after months on earth. Hell, the little firecracker in our basement still packed enough heat to put my hands out of commission for a while, and this one had been with us for almost a year.
You've got to remember, they weren't called Blazers for nothing.
I took the strip of cloth dangling from my waist loop and handed it to the other guy. He soaked the cloth, passed it back and poured more water on my wrapped hands, murmuring the words all the while.
The Blazer looked up at us then. Its face was clean, its body naked and smooth, untouched by the light coat of ash and dust that surrounded it.
"I want to see my brothers," was all it said.
I took a step towards it, my eyes on its hands crossed over its knees. I tested the cloth between my hands, noting its length and calculating how many times I could wrap it around those thin wrists.
"Today's your lucky day, then, angel."
Summary: When angels fall, they burn. And sometimes, they’re caught.
Author's Note: Title from a sport’s clothing brand. What can I say, the plot bunny strikes from the most unusual places.
Word Count: 1277
ETA: Crossposted to original_fic ( here) and fictionwriters ( here) on June 26, 2010.
The Last Wild Angel
We found it in the hayloft of an abandoned barn. Kinda makes you wonder whether the poor thing knew we were coming. Or maybe God, if he's still watching, loves irony.
It was a recon job: we hadn't set off for a hunt in months. No sightings, you see. No rumours, no signs, no nothing. We were running low on food and shelter, so when a kid shows up going on about a farm a handful of clicks away, you don't sit around.
Even so, we went armed.
***
You know them by the smell of ash.
We were finishing up with the farmhouse, packing what little food hadn't gone green and tossing out the rest. Some were upstairs, going through the wardrobes and bathroom cabinets, others were walking the perimeter and checking out the building's infrastructure.
The place we were holed up a few miles south wasn't bad, but if this farmhouse could handle a few souls, it would ease matters. We're a pretty big group in total, but that's only when the smaller groups - the friends, the families, the brothers-in-arms - agree on all going the same way. We tend to spread out, lose touch with each other for months, then regroup - in the winter, or when an "all hands on deck" call comes out through the grapevine. Still, it's always a good idea to have an extra house or two. You don't want all your firecrackers under one roof.
The call came up as I was checking the expiration dates on a stack of cans. (They were past by half a year at least, but we'd risk it, come winter.) You could hear the whisper coming closer, going from one throat to the next in a long chain of perfect telephone.
Blazer in the barn.
I may never have hunted with this exact group before, but we'd all been in similar situations enough to know the general drill. All of us with loot dropped our bags on the porch and joined the others already walking towards the barn. At the doorway, a group splintered off to surround the barn while the rest of us double-checked our weapons and prepared to go inside. Although we still used traditional arms - guns, steel and wood in some form or other - what really mattered was the right water, the right words, and a give 'em hell attitude.
Out here, the acrid smell of smoke was weak, a faint tug at the back of the throat, but we all recognized the pull. I wrapped a strip of fabric around my fists, stuck another strip into my waist loop and followed the others through the doorway.
Inside, the smell of heat and ash nearly choked me, sticking to the roof of my mouth and clawing its way down to my lungs. My eyes watered though the air was clear and I choked down a cough. It's a pure sensorial confusion: your body smells smoke, feels heat, knows in every fibre that there's a roaring fire closing in, but there's nothing there.
Nothing but a Blazer.
The smell was strongest in the farthest corner of the barn, up where a sorry excuse for a hayloft held a couple of square bales. I kept expecting to see flames burst out and had to fight the familiar shakes.
Mind over matter. There is no fire.
I tightened the rag around my fists, tugging on it with my teeth. Beside me, one of the guys pulled out a water bottle and started dousing his own wrapped-up hands, muttering a litany that's lost all meaning, just become a string of words and a habit. I followed suit, along with the others in the barn.
There was a ladder leading up to the hayloft, a rickety old thing with a couple nails sticking out and its planks lying in every direction but flat. Since I was closest to it, I went up first. It played hell on my hands, the palms still a bit raw and pink from a burn. (It'd been my fault: one of the little firecrackers we've got stored decided to remember what it was like to be a Blazer for a while to prove me a point. Don't piss off the 'cracker, was the point, they still burn.)
I reached the top of the ladder and hauled myself carefully onto the hayloft. The ladder immediately began to jigger as another set of hands made their way up.
Up here, there was still a hint of sweetness and warm summer days under all the ash, the bales of hay still dry enough to have kept this long. A hint, though, that was all.
If there had been a real fire up here, it would have been a wall of flame and smoke, thick blankets of ash swirling everywhere and a heat strong enough to singe your eyebrows. I stifled a cough, tried to breathe shallow although there was no smoke, and wiped my face with the wet rags around my fists. They came back clean, soot-free, as I knew they would, but it still gives me a jolt every time.
It was easy to find. Like a homing missile, all we had to do was turn towards the heat and keep going. My eyes watered from the sensations of heat and fire and smoke, my lungs felt like they were bleeding, but I kept going.
It was huddled up behind a bale, wedged between it and the sloping roof. There was an outline of ash - real ash - around its body. Stray scraps of hay were lying around it curled, splintered and blackened. I glanced at the wood above it and saw that it too was dark with soot. The guy that'd come up behind me gave a low whistle at the sight and took out a water bottle, choking out the end of his whistle with a whooping cough.
It was a new Blazer.
This wasn't one of those that'd fallen from the heavens back during the Great Not-Meteors-After-All Shower, when Blazers had spread their stench to every corner of the world as they ran or fell or failed. This one hadn't gone up in flames in retaliation or despair, hadn't hid and dwindled in the forgotten corners, hadn't been caught, subdued and used as a little Firecracker.
This one was wild.
I took a step forward, holding my breath because, even if the smoke wasn't real, it stung like hellfire. I'd never roped a new Blazer, even back when they'd just fallen. The ones I'd caught - tired, dispirited, sorry excuses of heavenly creatures - had still been fire personified even after months on earth. Hell, the little firecracker in our basement still packed enough heat to put my hands out of commission for a while, and this one had been with us for almost a year.
You've got to remember, they weren't called Blazers for nothing.
I took the strip of cloth dangling from my waist loop and handed it to the other guy. He soaked the cloth, passed it back and poured more water on my wrapped hands, murmuring the words all the while.
The Blazer looked up at us then. Its face was clean, its body naked and smooth, untouched by the light coat of ash and dust that surrounded it.
"I want to see my brothers," was all it said.
I took a step towards it, my eyes on its hands crossed over its knees. I tested the cloth between my hands, noting its length and calculating how many times I could wrap it around those thin wrists.
"Today's your lucky day, then, angel."