"Are you guys all right up there?" a scratchy sounding voice blurted out from the radio.
As the Flock leader, I was expected to answer so I did what any sane leader would do when asked that question. I turned around to take reading of the situation. Believe me, night in the skies of the Minnesota City are dark and cold.
Given that I couldn't see anyone, I called out to see who was still with me. A few yellings of "Here" and "Here, Max" were expected, as well as received, with little to no happiness, and not very energetically.
And of course the whining about "Why do we have to practice for these stupid air shows," was starting up. I couldn't agree more. Not surprisingly, Nudge was the first to get going.
"Come on, can we please go back now…. I'm beat, and its cold, and…"
Blah, blah, and blah
So just as I was about to tell Mom that we were all fine, and cheery for that matter (who wants pouting bird-kids?), when I heard something as the sound of the grinding of metal and the groan of beat up machinery. When I turned around, I could see very little even with me bird-kid super vision. Then it hit me.
Not just metaphorically. The thing, which I now figured to be a flyboy, had rammed into me form the side. Lucky for us, there was only one, which was one more than had I wanted at any given moment.
Also amazingly lucky, was that this was the most beaten up, still functioning Flyboy I had ever seen. One eye and arm each, and a gabbing hole in the abdomen. It's vocal system didn't seem to be functioning right either, as it gargled out nonsense. It kind of reminded you of a… umm… well, beat up Flyboys don't exactly remind you of a lot.
The Flyboy attempted to take swipe at my face, and missed by more than a foot. I didn't even have to dodge. This was way too easy. Its other arm stump moved as if it wanted to grab me. With a sharp blow the head, I put the Flyboy out of its misery. But out trouble had only just begun.