Angel In The Sand

The propellers wound down into silence, the blurred discs becoming visible again as they slowed. Mizuto always watched this moment - the contra-rotating blades weaving in and out of each other in perfect rhythm, the intersecting points staying precisely aligned by the hidden gearing within.

Stolas rocked gently on the swells, drifting toward shore with practiced grace. A soft bump came as the floats kissed the sand, sliding a few meters up the beach before settling.

The canopy was already open, slid back to give him an easy exit - there was no need to make room for the non-existent navigator. Mizuto stood, feeling the aircraft’s weight settle beneath him, and unlatched the cockpit side. The panel swung down, forming a step.

His boots clomped onto the metal wing. A moment later he jumped down, landing on the wet sand with a dull thwap. The shock of the cold water seeped through his soles as he trudged toward dry ground, submachine gun in hand, muzzle steady and forward.

The breeze was gentle but cool, carrying the scent of salt and kelp. Feathers rustled ahead of him like dry leaves shifting on a branch. From the air it had been hard to judge scale, but now he could see: the wing that bent at an angle was large, almost his height, and twisted downward in the middle like a gull’s broken limb. At least it bent down, not up - down meant pain. Up meant ruin.

He advanced carefully, weapon never lowering. As he drew near, something caught his eye - movement. A faint rise and fall in the figure’s back. Breathing. Weak, but there.

Up close, the figure was unmistakably human - or close enough. Blonde hair lay fanned around their face, plastered with sand. Two wings, perfectly white, sprouted from neat openings in the back of the simple summer dress. They didn’t look fake; each feather shimmered faintly, textured and real. An irrational urge to touch them crawled through his fingertips, but he held back.

They were alive - barely.

Training, old and dusty in the back of his mind, told him the first step was to clear the airways. They were definitely not clear. He swept his gaze over the beach once more, making sure he was alone, then slung the weapon over his shoulder and knelt beside them.

Rolling them over would crush the wings, and that broken one would never survive the strain. He hesitated, thinking, then did the next best thing: he took them by the shoulders and pulled them gently backward. To his surprise, they were light - impossibly so. Like a bird.

He eased them upright, then lowered them onto their back, careful not to pin the wings beneath them. Up close, her face emerged beneath the sand - delicate, almost radiant despite the dirt. Her breathing quickened, the rhythm growing more pronounced as air found its way back in.

He froze when he noticed the gentle curves beneath the fabric. A woman. Definitely a woman. And not of any kind he’d ever seen.

An angel, he thought, half-scornful, half-awed. I’ve actually found an angel.
Only the halo was missing - and the immortality.

Pain was written plainly across her face, her brow damp with sweat. Mizuto glanced around helplessly. What was the protocol for finding a wounded angel? None he knew of. He sighed inwardly. What a mess. He should’ve flown on, pretended he’d seen nothing -

But the thought died before it finished. Something inside him screamed at the very idea. If he’d left her, she would’ve died. She still might.

He dug into his flight vest and pulled out a syringe. The needle gleamed dully in the sunlight. Morphine. He hesitated, looking at her again. Can angels take morphine? It sounded ridiculous, but he had nothing else.

The needle slipped into her shoulder cleanly. He pressed the plunger, slow and steady.

Then her body twitched.

Her mouth opened slightly, eyes still closed. A voice slipped out - faint, fragile, but so impossibly sweet that it stilled him.

“Not… yet…”

Her breathing slowed. The tension left her face. Sleep - deep, heavy sleep - overtook her.

For a terrible moment he thought he’d killed her. Then he saw her chest rise again, gentle and regular. Relief flooded him, though he didn’t understand why.

He looked back toward Stolas. Then at the girl. Then back again.

A plan began to form.

Thanks to her light weight, it was no trouble to lift her - but he still did so carefully, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. Her broken wing hung limply across his shoulder, brushing against his neck; the other trailed through the sand, tracing a faint, uneven line behind them.

The next hurdle loomed: getting her onto the wing. Normally, he would have vaulted up without thinking, but this time every motion risked jarring her injuries. He eyed the black-painted surface - sleek, sun-baked, shimmering with heat - and almost laid her down before catching himself. The metal would sear bare skin.

He let out a low sigh, this one audible even to himself.
“Sorry,” he murmured, unsure whether the apology was for what he was about to do or for everything that had already happened.

He braced one hand on the wing’s hot surface, ignoring the burn that licked up his palm. With a sharp breath and one practiced, powerful motion, he vaulted up - holding her steady, holding his breath, waiting for a cry that never came. Somehow, he managed it without her wings brushing against anything. Relief flooded him in a brief, dizzying wave.

The tip of her trailing wing was soaked from their brief dip in the water; he only hoped it wasn’t too heat-sensitive. Working quickly but gently, he slid the canopy all the way back and unlatched the navigator’s side door. The cramped cockpit made it tricky to ease her in, especially with those fragile wings - but he took his time, guiding each one around so they wouldn’t catch or bend.

Once she was finally seated, he stepped back to take in the sight. She looked impossibly small in the co-pilot’s seat, her wings folded in awkwardly, her face pale and still. Carefully, he reached for the spare radio headset tucked behind his own chair, normally reserved for the navigator’s equipment, and slipped it over her head. The earpieces fit snugly over her small ears.

He leaned back for a moment, breath steadying, and then secured her straps. The movement felt strangely intimate - protective, even. He’d never done this before, not like this. When everything was set, he closed the side door, locking it with a soft click, and slid the canopy forward until it met the stop before the pilot’s section.

He sank into his own seat, exhaling deeply. What was he doing? Even now, he wasn’t sure. A route was already mapped in his head - muscle memory, instinct - but his thoughts wavered. Too many unknowns. Too many risks. But there was no turning back now. Someone had to help her. Someone had to care for her.

It would take a full day to reach the only place he could think of that might offer her help - a long detour, even by his standards. But he’d stretched the rules before. This would just be another line crossed, one he’d gladly bear.

He took a slow breath and began his preflight checks.
POWER - FULL.
ENGINE - START.

Then a dozen more in practiced sequence - switches, gauges, power flow, trim - until the procedure felt like a calming rhythm. His thumb pressed the glowing START button.

A rising whine filled the nose, building into a deep hum. He reached for his own headset, sliding it over his ears as the propeller blades began to blur into invisibility, the air around them trembling with energy. The hum swelled into a whistle.

His eyes flicked to the girl. Her head rested lightly against the seatback, hair stirring in the cockpit breeze. Still lost to the world - but peaceful.

He tightened his grip on the control lever. One gentle push adjusted the propeller pitch, angling the blades to push air backwards. Throttle open, the aircraft shuddered and began to reverse, water hissing beneath the floats.

He turned her toward open water, watching the shoreline shrink behind them, and pulled the canopy shut with a solid, sealing clack.

Flaps set to ten degrees.

Throttle forward.

The engine roared, the propellers biting into air and spray alike. Stolas leapt across the glittering surface, rising faster than he expected. A tug of the stick, a rush in his chest - and they were free.

The floats folded away with a hydraulic groan and a metallic thunk. The water fell away beneath them, replaced by the shimmer of open sky.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. For a moment, everything below - the sand, the shore, the still water - seemed impossibly distant.