The Angel Awakens

The aircraft settled into cruising altitude, and Mizuto flicked the rudimentary autopilot - it could only hold a straight course - before twisting his head over his shoulder to check on her. She hadn’t moved. The morphine must have hit her hard.

He leaned forward again, eyes sharp, scanning constantly for any hint of enemy aircraft or a sudden drift in his compass heading. The day stretched on. He had found her late that morning, and now noon had passed. Even with Stolas’s incredible speed, the journey remained long.

The sun arced steadily overhead, tracing the same path it always did. Mizuto followed his own rhythm: look, scan, check. Look, scan, check. Muscle memory, survival instinct.

Then, just past five o’clock, he heard it - a faint whimper, slipping through the static of the headset.

His head snapped around. She was awake. More than awake - crying.

She clutched at her broken wing, curling it protectively around herself, or at least trying to. Her other wing was folded behind her back, tucked so neatly that its true size was hidden. Her bright blue eyes locked on him instantly, wide and frightened, and she recoiled further.

Tears streaked her smooth skin. Mizuto felt an ache spike in his chest. His hand moved slightly, and the aircraft responded with a subtle jolt. Her arms slammed against the cockpit walls, fingers gripping the metal until her knuckles went white. Sobs wracked her small frame, too focused on holding herself upright to wipe away the tears.

He hesitated, then brought the headset microphone closer to his mouth, his voice as soft as he could manage.
“Are… are you alright?”

No reply. He couldn’t tell if she didn’t understand him - or if she simply didn’t want to.

“Can you understand me? Are you okay?” he asked again, a little more firmly, though still gentle.

Something shifted. Her head moved - a tiny shake - almost imperceptible, but there it was. He let his eyes travel to her wing.
“Is it sore?”

Another subtle nod through the tears. Mizuto grimaced.
“I’m sorry. I’m going to see if I can find someone to help you, okay?”

A barely noticeable flinch. He softened again, his expression patient. There was more than physical pain in her tears. He could see it - a tremor in her posture, a tension in her shoulders. Scars, fresh and recent, invisible to everyone else. Whatever she had endured, it made her wary of others. He didn’t pry. He only offered the small comfort he could: a steady, reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry. She’s nice. She won’t hurt you. And I won’t either.”

No response. Mizuto ran through his checks again, hands moving with efficiency born of habit, but his attention always flicked back to her.

Her eyes held his, steady even amid the tears, a silent plea that made the heart ache: a need for comfort, for connection. He couldn’t offer her a hug here in the cockpit, couldn’t wrap his arms around her fragile frame. Instead, he offered what he could.

“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

No reply again. But he stayed calm, held her gaze for a heartbeat longer, then returned to his routine - flying, scanning, checking - now with an occasional glance toward the girl as her soft sobs wove through the static in the radio.

The sun lowered, sinking toward the horizon. Even Mizuto wasn’t foolish enough to attempt an all-nighter. He began his descent as twilight spread across the ocean, following the last sliver of daylight like a fading trail.

The landing procedure was simple, methodical, yet required care. Open water stretched endlessly in every direction. Aside from the few small, uninhabited islands he had passed, nothing broke the surface.

Flaps down. Floats down. Final checks.

The surface was calm. He eased Stolas closer, feeling the floats skim the water before the aircraft settled with a gentle splash. At higher speeds, the water would have been merciless, bracing and jarring. Now it cushioned her, slowing her naturally as he cut the engine.

He pushed the canopy back, the floats’ last ripples settling beneath Stolas’s belly. Stepping onto the wing, he felt the residual warmth of the day radiating from the black paint. He stretched, muscles creaking from hours in the tight cockpit, then leaned down to peer back inside.

The girl had stopped sobbing, but she still gripped the cockpit edges tightly, posture rigid, eyes wide.

He offered a gentle smile.
“We’ll spend the night here. We’ll arrive tomorrow at lunch, I reckon.”

No response.

He tried again, softer this time.
“Would you like me to let you out?”

Still no movement. Her gaze remained locked on him, wary, prepared for fight or flight at the slightest sudden motion. Mizuto sighed, straightening up, scanning the flat, darkening sea around them.

From his pocket he retrieved a small electric lamp and flicked it on. The warm glow illuminated the rear cockpit and storage compartment as he moved. Her eyes followed every motion like a creature caught in a burrow.

A few moments later, he held a meal pack in hand. A flick of his wrist tore it open: chicken, rice, and peas - simple, nourishing. He took a long swallow, letting the taste anchor him, and then turned his gaze to her.

Her headset still clung to her small ears. He lifted the packet, gesturing first to it, then toward her. Hungry? he mouthed.

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a blink. Mizuto stared for a long moment, testing the subtle rise and fall of her eyelids, until finally she blinked. Relief tightened in his chest.

She appeared roughly his age, yet her demeanor was that of a frightened child. Something deeper lingered beneath the surface - trauma, fear, layers of experience he couldn’t begin to guess. He acknowledged it quietly, knowing there was nothing he could do for now.

He finished his meal, stowing the empty packet in the storage compartment and closing the curved fuselage cover with a soft clang. Returning to the cockpit, he shut the side door and slid the canopy forward, sealing in warmth against the cooling night.

He glanced back. She was still watching, every flicker of his movement noted with careful, wary attention.

“I’m going to turn in. I’d recommend you do too, if you can,” he said softly.

A faint nod.

He settled back into his own seat, muscles protesting the unfamiliar, cramped position. Sleeping in a cockpit was second nature to him - he hadn’t used a bed since acquiring Stolas - but it was never truly comfortable.

As he switched off the lamp, plunging the cockpit into darkness, nothing seemed right. His spine refused to align. His head pressed awkwardly against the hard seatback. His legs went numb in odd, unnatural angles.

He exhaled, a quiet surrender to the long night ahead.