Chapter 1

Sometimes I wondered what I did in a past life to deserve this.

"There she is, after her!"

Adrenaline shot through my system as I hurriedly scrambled out of my now useless hiding spot. Making a mad dash down the crowded street, I rapidly scanned the area for anything that could possibly conceal me. It was pointless. The whole street had seen the commotion, and the eyes of every single curious bystander were now pinned on me, following my every move.

With no other possible escape routes in sight, I took off down the street in a frantic sprint.

This must have been quite the odd sight, a slip of a girl running away from a group of pursuing marines as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. I wondered how I must have appeared to any onlookers. Probably what most people got for a first impression of me: petite and with a frailty akin to that of most baby birds, so much so that it seems a slight breeze could bring me down. Their judgement, though true, was completely unwarranted. I could take care of myself... most of the time.

I madly scratched at the deceptively beautiful ocean-toned bracelet that was practically adhered to my wrist, and mentally reprimanded myself. I should have paid more attention—damn that suspiciously convincing merchant and equally suspicious yet sparkly jewelry—with this thing stuck on me I'm as helpless as a newborn babe and slower than a turtle with a bum leg.

A quick glance back—they're catching up. I couldn't keep this pace for much longer, my lungs were already starting to burn from the strain.

The stifling heat quickly sapped my already dwindling energy, and the sand beneath my feet provided no traction whatsoever, drastically slowing my hurried strides. Alabasta was by no means a fun place be chased in, especially on foot. I'm so done for, the hysteric thought raced through my mind. My body wasn't made for running in such heat. I wasn't made for running, period.

For one heart-stopping moment I felt something grasp onto the back of my oversized sweater—Oh why must loose clothing be so comfy—then quickly relaxed at the sound of ruffling feathers and a disgruntled squawk followed by the familiar prick of talons on my skin.

"Apollo... help... please?" I gasped out, frantically gesturing towards the rapidly descending marines.

Still clinging to my back, the small feathered hitchhiker released a cry of acknowledgement before a blinding flash of golden light went off in my peripheral vision. Quickly glancing back, I confirmed that the group of marines (plus any unfortunate bystanders) had been successfully—though temporarily—put out of commission. Internally laughing at their disoriented flailing and stumbling as they collided with each other, I darted into the nearest alleyway before they could spot me again.

Finally getting a break from running—though it wasn't a long distance by any standard—I stopped and placed my hands on my knees, struggling to regain enough breath to string together a coherent sentence.

"Could—*cough*... couldn't you have done that a little sooner?" I muttered, wearily glaring at the small falcon-like creature as it hopped down my shoulder to lightly perch on my forearm, careful to avoid pricking my skin with its sharp talons.

My complaint was soundly ignored as the bird slowly sized-up the mineral encasing my wrist and, without warning, promptly tore off a large chunk and swallowed it in one fluid motion.

There was moment of stunned silence.

Staring down at my now bare wrist, a stream of bewildered stuttering escaped my mouth before I was able to marginally compose myself and blurted, "This whole time, you could have just... what. I mean, thanks, but this would have been better to know beforehand."

I quickly gathered my thoughts and recollected my findings on his particular species—findings that I hoped to expand by travelling to this death trap of an oven. Alicanto: a desert-dwelling avian bearing resemblance to a falcon. Diet consists of most metals and minerals—typically silver or gold—which causes the feathers to develop a metallic sheen and unnatural glow. Apparently, seastone can be included on this list.

I was met with a stare that said, I was a little busy saving your ass. You're welcome.

Giving a defeated sigh, I relented. "Thanks Apollo, really, but next time a little warning before attacking my wrist would be appreciated."

Appearing satisfied—not to mention now glowing a faint blue—Apollo took back to the sky, letting out an impatient screech as though telling me to hurry up.

A fond smile grew on my face at his typical behaviour. That was Apollo for you, always in a rush to get to the next place—the next potential adventure.

Replying with a simple wave of acknowledgment, I glanced around, checking the area for any potential unwanted observers.

There was no one.

I allowed my body to relax, and slowly the air began to shift—growing heavy and muddled as a pale purple haze gradually permeated the area and formed a dense fog. Suddenly, the mist shifted and gathered around my person, rapidly accumulating and embracing me in a wispy yet oddly substantial hold, and I'm in the air.

My heart gave an elated flip-flop and I released a pleased hum, blissfully sinking into the surface of the newly-formed cloud. Ah, the open sky. No marines, no seastone accessories, and no trigger-happy people trying to kill me, I thought. I'm relatively safe now, my presence concealed by the lavender-tinted cloud beneath me as I sedately drifted away from the middle-of-nowhere desert town.

Tossing on a cloak to protect my borderline-anemic complexion from the blistering sun, I lazily watched the landscape pass by as I leisurely floated overhead. "Why did they chase me," I grumbled, glaring irritably at the little piece of paper that I was absolutely sure had been the cause of all this unwelcome pursuit, "It's not even a large bounty, a pigeon could get this much for pooping on some marine statue." I glowered at the sum and grumbled, "500 belli, I swear, this is some sick joke."

Warbling laughter could be heard from above. "C'mon Apollo, it's not funny!" I groused. We could have a serious problem on our hands here. This face was not meant to be broadcasted to the world—the attention would most definitely interfere with my work.

I attempted to hold a stern expression, but quickly fell into giggles. "Ok, it's pretty funny." I'll just worry about it later, no point in lingering on it; I can't really do anything about it anyway, I thought.

I paused for a moment and pouted, muttering, "Smoker's so getting an earful when I see him again." This whole situation was his fault, I swear it. Vengeance will be mine—eventually, maybe, or not, he's pretty intimidating, and tall. Really tall.

What would warrant a bounty on my head anyway? I don't even remember doing anything illegal, well, nothing explicitly illegal.

So maybe I tagged along with a pirate crew every once and awhile, not like I ever actually joined them. I'm too timorous and breakable—not the most desirable qualities in a crewmate. That is, If I wanted to be one. I'll pass though—I prefer my limbs attached and sanity (relatively) intact thank you very much.

Normally the sense of adventure and freedom would be a temptation, but my life is filled with enough of it as is. My occupation, conducting experimental field research plus connection development and maintenance for the family—my family—suited me well. Much more so than randomly fighting every trigger-happy power hungry pirate and/or marine on the sea (pirate, marine, they're pretty much interchangeable terms these days). That just sounds exhausting, not to mention boring: Sail, fight, flirt with death, recover, get wasted, rinse and repeat.

No thanks, I'm better off with the family where there's plenty of adventure, no captain to order me around, and absolutely no mandatory battles. I get to go at my pace, wandering around until I stumble into something interesting.

Apollo swooped overhead and glimpsed the bounty's photo, soon after bursting into more mocking chitters. I stuck out my tongue childishly, and then looked back down.

It wasn't that bad, they got all the basics at least... but I was a mess. My charcoal toned hair was all over the place, the disheveled curls practically swallowing my head, and the beret—normally perched on my head—was more barely holding on for dear life, and my clothes—dear god my clothes—were a disaster. Bedraggled and slightly battered, I looked like I had just fled a warzone, which is essentially what I had done—or tried to anyways. Thankfully, my overgrown bangs concealed my rather distinctive eyes, and the whole image appeared blurred, as though part of a mirage.

Most days they wouldn't have even had the opportunity to take such a photo, I typically disappear too quickly for the marines to really notice me, much less attempt to take a photo. But unfortunately, there had been no escape that time, which was quite evident as I awkwardly dangled like a startled kitten from the back of my sweater, snared in the iron grip of non-other than the stony-faced Mr. Smokey himself while grinning sheepishly in the camera's general direction. I had gotten away eventually—though at the sacrifice of a good sweater—but apparently there had been enough time in-between to quickly snap a picture.

Slowly raising a hand to my face, I released an irritated grumble, "I swear, next time I see that man, he's going to be knocked out before he can take another cancer-filled breath."

Direct confrontation was out of the question, I wasn't quite intimidating enough, seeing as my head barely even reached his chest, and he could probably squash me like a bug and break me like a twig at the same time without even lifting a finger. My thoughts delved into scheming, Mist would probably work, I thought, but he could probably counteract that with his smoke, maybe if I—

I brusquely shook my head, pushing away my plans for revenge for a later time. Glancing down at the print below the image, I assessed the epithet they had graciously bestowed unto me—preparing for the worst. Considering everything else, it was probably the only relatively impressive thing on this otherwise completely humiliating piece of paper.

"Wanted Alive: Camille 'Dream Weaver' Miles. Not bad, not bad, but... why alive and not dead? I mean, it's is definitely better than dead, but why?" I looked over at Apollo, silently asking for some input, and was met with a deadpan stare. Why would I know? It seemed to say.

I shrugged, "Oh well, guess I'll just drop it for now." Taking my own statement literally, I unceremoniously crumpled the poster, tossing it into the sands below.

No longer concerned about being chased, my eyelids grew heavy as my body realized it was now fresh out of adrenaline—the only thing that could encourage me to stay awake for such a long span of time.

I had a passing thought, Hold on, those marines were way too determined for such small boun—but I was pulled into dreamland before it could be completed. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be remembered until much later.

Meanwhile in the recently fled town, a group of newly-recruited marines were slowly beginning to recover from their first experience with a feathery flash grenade.

One marine awkwardly stumbled up, blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes in an attempt to chase away the spots in his vision. "Huh, where'd the lady go?" He paused, and looked down at the satchel loosely clutched in his hand, "We didn't get to give this back... Must have been in a hurry, she was going pretty fast."

Curiosity forcing his hand, he opened the bag, and several objects tumbled onto the sand. The marine inquisitively poked through them in search of some form of identification. At first glance he saw one large sweater, a pair of leggings, as well as some... southern necessities. He quickly averted his eyes. "M-must be a change of clothes" he stammered, cheeks flushing a bright fuchsia.

Disregarding the articles, he spotted a small journal that had fallen off to the side. Its appearance was overall plain, the blank leather cover worn yet clearly cherished, and one corner was stained a deep black, as though charred.

The marine checked again to be sure. It was true, but odd—especially considering they were in the middle of a desert. For some reason, the clothing and this single book made up all of the contents of the bag. No rations, water canteen, or survival gear to be found. This person either had the worst survival skills or was downright suicidal.

Opening the book, the pages appeared singed, though thankfully remained legible. The opening page read:

"Dear person reading this other than myself,

Hi, I hope you're having a better day than I probably am, especially since my journal is apparently being read by someone other than me.

In the very likely event that I, Miles, have forgotten this book (which will likely be found in an equally misplaced satchel), please dial the marines via the nearest transporter snail, and request for a captain, specifically Captain Smoker. He owes me one, I think. Dunno why he'd do all of this otherwise. Once he's on (which you can tell if you hear a voice that sounds like it just inhaled a chainsaw), state one simple phrase: 'Code Bird '.

You will likely hear a collective groan from the background, as well as one exasperated curse. This is totally normal as this exact scenario has most definitely happened several times in the past. Sorry.

After hanging up, you will soon be approached by a messenger bird, known by many as Pikko, if you want to address him by name. He's a dear friend of mine, so don't worry. He's safe to approach and will not maul you despite his intimidating appearance. After all, you have something quite precious to me, so he'll avoid attacking you if only to avoid further damage to this book.

Please hand over the journal to him, as he's the only creature in existence that can effectively pinpoint my location.

This message is getting pretty long, so I'll sum it up. Please return the journal, and thank you in advance for returning it. If you don't intend on doing that then, man, you are one hell of a jerk.

Feel free to read the contents, though I doubt the information would be very useful to you unless you plan on encountering any of these avians in the near future. Something I don't recommend unless you're up for a quick brush—or permanent residence—with death.

I hope you have a nice day!

Sincerely,

Camille O. Miles"

Curiosity piqued, the marine flipped to the next page, then the next, and the next after that. Each page he passed was filled, no, crammed with notes and observations, the terminology too unfamiliar and vocabulary too complex for his mind to fully process the meaning behind them. What really caught his attention though, were the images.

Some were mere sketches, a few were rushed or half complete—as though interrupted partway through—and others were painstakingly detailed anatomical drawings. The subjects of every single page seemed impossible, fantastical things, figments of the imagination. Some pages displayed creatures of ethereal beauty, their majestic wings sweeping proudly across the pages. Others contained the monstrous, the terrifying, and the grotesque beings that dwelled only in the darkest recesses of the world, whose razor-sharp talons and glinting fiendish eyes spoke of unadulterated blood-lust and dark, malevolent glee.

The creatures within the journal, be they monstrous, majestic, or minuscule, were all connected by one single factor: every single one was completely and undoubtedly avian—each had some variation of wings and were (generally) feathered.

He understood the final warning in her message, anyone to encounter such fearsome things—no matter how inconceivable it may seem—without utmost caution and preparation, would undoubtedly meet a very slow, very painful, end.

That settles it. The owner of the satchel was most definitely suicidal, if not clinically insane. No one would actively search out these things otherwise.

Thinking back to the initial message, connecting the instructions provided to the situation at hand, and recollecting instances quite similar to this one that have been repetitively occurring recently, the marine quickly pinpointed the identity of the satchel's owner. With a sense of déjà-vu, the marine grabbed his transponder snail and called his division leader, an expression of growing amusement on his face. "Captain Smoker, sorry to bother but... Code Bird" he forced out, stifling the urge to laugh.

There was a period of silence, and then a unanimous groan could be heard from the other end as well as around his feet—apparently his whole unit had overheard the code's announcement.

"Goddamn," a gravelly voice cursed through the connection.

"I know Captain," the marine responded, a slight tone of awe in his voice.

"How many times is this now?" The voice droned, his irritation bleeding into the question.

Though it was likely rhetorical, the recruit answered anyways, "...The fourth time this week, Captain Smoker."

"I swear... that pipsqueak needs to start paying more attention" Smoker grumbled from the other end, "that absentmindedness will end up getting her killed someday." He released exasperated sigh. "Don't go far, I'm sending the damn bird."

A question burst out of the marine's mouth before he could stop it, "Sir, if you don't mind me asking, why are we helping her? Aiding pirates in any way goes completely against protocol." The marine regretted the words almost as soon as they came out.

There was a pause, and the marine quickly started apologizing, fearing he had offended his captain in some way, but was interrupted by a rough bark of laughter, "That weakling? She's no pirate. Pipsqueak's the most harmless thing I can think of. In any combat situation I've seen her in, her fight or flight reaction must ignore the 'fight' option and go straight to flight." To the side he muttered, "She could get in a fight with a pigeon and still lose, the idiot." Despite his harsh words, there was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. "Besides, she saved my life—stopped Pikko from decapitating me and somehow talked that sadistic bird into becoming an ally with that silver tongue of hers." The words were respectful, which was rare. True respect wasn't something easily earned from his captain. Many had tried, and many had failed, or given up in the process—far too intimidated by his stoic countenance. Those on his unit even began treating the word like a mythical creature, something that was rare to see and virtually impossible to obtain.

Before the marine could ask any further questions, the sound of heavy wing beats alongside the distant rumble of thunder entered his range of hearing. "Pikko must almost be here." The marine stated, and then hesitated, "I'm not really sure though, I've never met him before."

Smoker made a noise of affirmation. "You'll be fine. Just stay off Pikko's bad side unless you're in the mood for a maiming. I'd rather not have another soldier sent to emergency." After that single warning, the call abruptly ended. Unfortunately for the new-recruit, he was unable to see the subtle smirk on Smoker's face as he hung up.

Thunder crashed overhead as the sky rapidly darkened, the light of the sun smothered by the black swollen clouds that swiftly filled the sky. The atmosphere grew intense and oppressive, charged with a suffocating energy that bore down on anyone in the area. Oddly enough, despite the stormy conditions not even a single drop of rain fell down, and the air remained hot and stifling. Lightly trembling in fear, the marine waited in tense silence as the wing beats grew rapidly closer and the thunder grew to deafening levels.

An immense shadow fell over the marine, and before he could react or even register it an overwhelming gust of wind knocked him face-first into the sand. Coughing as grit filled his mouth, he blearily glanced up at the imposing creature above him.

Standing at least three times his size and coated in a dense layer of menacing jet-black feathers (and was that lightning jumping around it?), it was the most intimidating thing he had ever seen. The bird—if birds were comparable the size of several cannons stacked on top of each other—slowly lowered its head, as if not to startle him. It didn't work. The moment its burning electric yellow eyes met with the marines, he lost his shit, shutting down and freezing in pure terror. Noticing the marine's panicked state, the bird stretched out a lethal glinting talon—holy fuck it was the size of his arm—menacingly raised it towards the marine—Idon'twanttodieplease—and—

Gently poked him in the shoulder.

"Huh...?" It took the marine a few minutes to register that the giant scary lightning bird was not, in fact, about to cripple and/or kill him. He gave a little jump and squeak of fright as the creature—which was at this point undoubtedly the aforementioned Pikko—poked him again, more insistently than the last. "R-right, the journal" He stuttered, and handed it over with trembling, well, everything. Giving a derisive snort, Pikko quickly snatched the book from the marine's hands and took off, completely disappearing from view in a matter of seconds.

Standing in the middle of the street surrounded by the group of equally stunned new recruits, the marine hysterically mumbled, "Tiny girl... big—scary bird...friend... how?—" and promptly fell into a dead faint.

Miles away, a wandering cloud collided with an unyielding sandstorm.

.

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Author's Note:

Many of you will likely skip reading this, and that's cool, I don't mind if you do so.

The plans on where this story is going are still in development, as are the chapters, so updates will most likely be sporadic at best.

This is essentially the first piece of fanfiction I've ever written. So, I honestly have no idea what I'm doing. Reviews are also great and appreciated, but not mandatory—I won't hold this story for hostage or anything. That just seems wrong.

Exiting question: What do you guys think about Miles so far? I tried not to reveal too much about her, but I may have ended up being too vague—or perhaps I'm just being obtuse and I'm actually revealing too much, I'm not sure. Any guesses on what her powers are?

Thank you for reading,

IvoryAddax