Wind, rough on her face, running cold fingers through her hair. Atmosia was tinted the blue of a winter dusk, and the cobalt silhouettes of naked trees raked over the dirt road. Weaver felt the chill of her bike's metal through her fingers, and clenched her grip around the throttle. The road twisted and scrambled through the lightless forest, towards the tiny white blotch circled by trees.
Weaver slid off the skimmer, wheeled the bike to the wall. Smoke curled calmly from the cottage's chimney. The door was open, a thin slice of more evening shadow. A crisp, wooden smell drifted towards her, and she inhaled deeply; the scene might be calm but she was not. Her nerves buzzed. This was not expected, and yet there was only one other who ever came here, who called it a home.
She sidled through the door, into a hallway of familiar shapes glowing grey in the darkness. Light seethed through the cracks around the kitchen door. Adrenaline surged into her blood in a thousand tiny droplets.
Opened the door, caught a flash of purple hair, a slender figure leant over the hearth. Heard the intake of breath, saw the hand whip the nun-chucks from a hip. Eyes dragged across the room, settled on a metal pan. Weaver staggered to the counter, curled her fingers around the pan. Pivoted on a heel. Pan met crystal with a reverberating crassssh that vibrated through the little kitchen. Eyes met with a spark of recognition and an iron grip curled tight on Weaver's shoulder. The pan was torn from her hand.
"Weaver!"
"Who the else would it be!?" She cried, fending away the nun-chucks with the arm that wasn't aching under Starling's grip.
"Where were you?" Starling hissed, her eyes narrowing. "You weren't here when I came back, and that was days ago."
"If you really want to know, I was with the Storm Hawks, your new best friends!" It was childish, but Weaver could feel the bitterness rising in her throat. "You didn't even bother to let me know you were back. And you were here, right here on Atmosia! Now let go of me."
Starlings grasp tightened for a second, and then the woman let her arm fall.
"Girl, I had just left Cyclonia after blowing my cover and having the life beat out of me by Master Cyclonis. I had some rather pressing things to do."
"Huh. Sure. You think that makes it okay? You think I haven't been getting the messages? The skimmer, this uniform, that letter to the flaming Sky Council! You don't want me around. I thought-"
"You thought what? That just because I saw fit to train you, because you didn't have anybody else, that suddenly I'd forget everything...everything that hap-...that I'd forget the truth of what I am, and start up a happy new squadron, the Interceptors Mark 2? Maybe it can happen for the Storm Hawks, but not here, girl. Not with me." Starling broke her glare from Weaver's face, but not before the girl saw the sparkle of moisture.
"So that's it, then? You forbid me from doing anything on my own and then you tell me I can't follow you. What am I then?" Weaver hissed, her nose taught with a snarl.
"You're a wingman. The dependable one, the one the Sky Knight relies on, but not the leader, not the stupid courageous one! Heck, I was a wingman, I was just the wingman! And here I am, Starling, Sky Knight, the only Interceptor left, because there was nothing else I could be. But you're not my wingman!" Starling cradled her face in her hand, swathed in the flickering shadows and the hot, orange light from the hearth.
"Fine! I'll just go sit in the Wastelands then! Or better yet, why don't I just go jump ship to Cyclonia!"
"Weaver, if you're going to say stupid things like that, I think you'd better go."
* * * * * * * * * *
The wind was rough on her face again, prickling her skin, dragging away the warmth of her cheeks. Dragging droplets from her squinting eyes, but she knew they weren't tears, because she knew she wouldn't cry over this. But the confusion loomed around her, sucking at her from all angles, filling up the empty sky like a beaker, a beaker full of confusion, despair, loneliness, and she was drowning. One threat of coherence, of certainty, sparkled in her haze of thoughts. She didn't know where it had come from or why she had thought it, but she was following its blazing path through the skies of Atmos, a tiny figure on a silent skimmer, under the emotionless gaze of the stars.
That tiny figure had cruised this path once before, under spring skies, intoxicated with the thrill of adventure and the noxious winding of guilt. Following another familiar figure, on a purple skimmer, the covert spy using her skills against her mentor.
She'd just wanted to know where it was that Starling went, what it was that made the Sky Knight slam the door when she returned, and slink away into the woods for hours. The only time she'd ever seen the mist of tears in Starling's eyes was when the Sky Knight came back from her explanationless journeys. So she followed, and when she was delivered her answers, guilt had crawled up from her stomach, clambered up her throat, settled poisonously in her mind.
It was a darker scar against the blackness of the sky. A tiny terra, struggling against the wreath of clouds, with barely room for the folly that crowned its west-facing slope. Weaver landed her skimmer, lowered it to the ground against a grassy knoll with reverence. The terra sighed as the chill wind brushed across auburn stems. Weaver picked her way up steps hewn from the natural granite, and trailed a hand across a stone column as she entered the folly's arched dome. From here, the highest point of the tiny terra, the faded lights of a larger terra were visible on the horizon, through the wisps of cloud. Terra Mesa, Weaver recalled. One time home of the Interceptors and Starling. Now under the bloody hand of Cyclonia. And here she stood, on the Interceptors Folly. Only those who knew its significance knew the name of the terra.
She looked up, into the murky recesses of the dome. Barely visible, dark indigo against a paler violet, wings spread, head reared in defence. The Interceptor shield. Her eyes trailed downwards, to the bronze plaque between her boots. Faded black letters against the flecked metal read:
Here lie the bodies, hearts and souls of who sacrificed themselves for their cause. Alongside lie the hearts, souls and thoughts of those left behind.
She shuddered, and collapsed slowly to her knees. Stroked the plaque, and knew that it could never mean as much to her as it meant to Starling. Wished it had been otherwise, wished everything had been otherwise. The Gyro's leathery skin, his crinkled voice, and tears flowed. She imagined she felt a steel grip on her shoulder, telling her come, come home. Turned, and saw only the night rearing away to the lights of Mesa.
She walked down the path, brushing tears away brusquely. Swung herself onto the skimmer, like she had a thousand times, and twisted the throttle. Flicked the switch and the wings unfolded with satisfying clunks. The gut-wrenching lurch as gravity clutched at girl and skimmer, but skimmer triumphed, an old friend. Home, home.
Her thoughts of humble apology, the plea begging in her mind, that she'd take anything, anything Starling cared to give her, just don't leave her alone, were broken by shudders and judders that were not familiar. The engine whined, spitting gauzy smoke trails, and gravity pulled tighter, and the skimmer did not triumph. Weaver felt that she should scream, but there was nobody to hear, and besides, what would it achieve? Not much more than her frantic tugs on the handles, her stream of curses at the skimmer to work, dammit!
She was spiralling, plunging down towards the permanent sheath of clouds that cloaked the wastelands, and she imagined she could see the arching, jagged spikes of obsidian rock and the flaming coils of lava rivers. Imagined, in her terror, Starling's iron grip around her arm.
The skimmer kept plunging but Weaver was jerked to a stop, dangling over death. She looked up, followed the hand around her arm to the arm that was not hers, and up that arm and over the shoulder and to a pair of violet eyes.
"When you're being stupid, you go all out, don't you?"
And Weaver croaked, "will you take me home?" and barely saw the fractional tilt of consent of Starling's head. Yes, home, home.
* * * * * * * * * *
I enjoyed writing this! I hope you wonderful readers enjoy reading it!
And a special kudos to Stylo-Binge, alicat259, and exquisitness. Thou three art loverly.