A Taste of Life

After about ten minutes of not doing much, Travis spotted a flying person in the distance. "Is that supposed to be him?" he wondered.

"I… am not sure," I admitted.

"If it turns out to be dangerous, I call first dibs," Bernicia called.

The person swooped down to where we were. His longish white hair and tired-looking face were a dead ringer – it WAS the worker! One of them, anyway.

"Okay, bub, you've got a lot of explaining to do," I told him. "Larry, was it? Start talking!"

"You're an aeronaut?!" Travis looked dumbfounded.

"Yes. So is Roy. We're part of the first generation of aeronauts. We're pretty sure you guys are the third," Larry recounted. "Based on what we've found, our cover company, known as A-Tech, is actually defunct."

"Yeah, I know about how A-Tech got shut down by the SSA or whatever," I impatiently stated. "What I want to know about is YOU!"

"Cool your jets!" Larry rose a finger. "First, do you guys know what you really are?"

"Spare me the existential crisis," Travis groaned.

"Not your role or obligation or anything! I mean biologically speaking," Larry told us. "Listen: according to what we found; aeronauts are humans spliced with these weird patchwork creatures called biotools. Our sources were pretty spotty, but this fact lined up pretty consistently."

"So if you're Gen 1, then what happened to Gen 2?" I inquired.

"I'm not sure; no solid evidence came up," Larry shrugged. "But apparently they were engineered to be the best of the best. I don't know where they are now."

"Hey, Larry. Do you like the city?" Bernicia asked.

"Hmm… Chandonis, the city of dreams. It grows on you, I guess," Larry mused. "There's a lot to explore down in the streets of the tri-state area, if you know where to look. Roy likes it a lot better, though. He knows all the nooks and crannies."

"But you need money to live in the city," Blake said. "And I bet its cost of living is super high."

"It's not that bad, all things considered," Larry shrugged. "For now, I'll get you some stuff, show you around, and maybe crash somewhere. What do you say?"

"Hmmm," I went.

"I wanna see the sights," Bernicia decided.

"I don't mind either way," Travis shrugged.

"Mostly in favor, then?" Larry pointed downward. "It'll be fun, probably."

"W-well." I tried to act nonchalant. "I never said no."

"Well, then, first things first. I know a good clothes place down south. I'll help you guys pick out some real clothes."

"REAL clothes?!" I drew back, offended. "We're not naked, you idiot!"

"Look, you'll stand out like apples in potatoes with that getup," Larry replied. "I mean, brightly colored jumpsuits? We're trying to be low-key here!"

"Mine is black," Blake mumbled.

"It's not the end of the world. I mean, you can stow the jumpsuits if they mean that much to you," Larry told us.

"It's not that I like my jumpsuit," I replied. "I mean… it's more like… we've never worn anything else."

"Speak for yourself," Bernicia snickered.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," she sang. "Come along, then!"

~

An hour or so later, the five of us walked out of a thrift store.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Larry said. "Now you'll have an easier time blending in."

We gave each other evaluative once-overs. Since we were optimized for flight, we aeronauts bore a natural aversion to heavy clothes. Even so, with the clothes we decided on (I particularly liked the striped t-shirt I picked out), we still managed to resemble teenagers like the ones I read about, albeit diminutive ones.

For some reason, even after we landed back on the skyscraper's roof, this thought had begun to nag at me really badly.

"Hey!" I turned towards Larry. "How come you're so much taller than us?"

"Huh? Uhh, does it matter?"

"You're Gen 1, right? Why did they decide to make us so tiny?"

"How should I know? Roy's still cross-referencing those documents," Larry shrugged. "If I had to guess, though, it was to compensate for your muscle density. I figured that much when you beat us up at the House of Steel."

"Oh. Ah, sorry about that," I muttered. "So I suppose this means you guys have less muscle mass than us?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure our bones are hollow, too. Based on how you guys fought, I could tell you were probably made smaller because of your solid builds. You wouldn't be able to fly if you were my size."

"So… I could beat you in an arm wrestling contest, then," I ascertained.

"Probably, but not in a race," Larry replied. "Sure, none of us in Gen 1 are very strong, but our airspeed is unmatched."

I narrowed my eyes. "Unmatched how?"

"Well, the way I see it, we were optimized for mobility, while you guys of Gen 3 seem to have been optimized for power," Larry concluded.

"That doesn't mean you're faster than Gen 3," I tersely replied.

"Hey, Larry," Bernicia called. She was going through his bag. "Travis and I are heading out to have some fun. What do these ball things do?"

"They're like bombs, sort of? They're Roy's, but he gave me a few," Larry answered. "I recommend the gray ones; they make a smokescreen."

"Neat! Come on, White Knight, adventure awaits!"

"Right behind you, umm, Pixie Girl, was it?"

"Dark Pixie Girl." Soon she and Travis had vanished into the dark alleyways below.

"Let's race," I decided.

"Huh? Now?" Larry sounded confused. "I was going to get us some donuts."

"I've heard of those," Blake said. "You should do that."

"Not until we race," I insisted.

~

*Intermission: The Hitman

A hitman stood by the bar counter, calmly observing the very unusual scene that had unfolded in Club Roan. He had seen many strange things over the course of his career, but this took the cake. They were small, but very fast. And strong, too, if the wounded patrons that had made the mistake of attacking them were any indication.

"Heh," a shaking patron muttered. "I c-called the cops. They'll put you down."

The hitman's immediate thoughts were voiced by the white-clad intruder: "this is a bar," he said. "We're people with wings. Who's gonna believe you?"

The black-clad intruder cackled somewhat maniacally, then stabbed the patron in the thigh. "We're just having fun," she said. "I bet half of you won't even remember what happened here."

Ah, but what had happened…? The hitman closed his eyes for a second. They had smashed through the front door in a burst of odorless smoke, then attempted to order milk. Why milk? How old were they?

Somehow, the hitman figured that they didn't know either.

Then the bartender had snapped, firing at them with his rifle…

The hitman could tell right away that these inscrutable entities had received intense training, possibly for much of their lives.

They flew with bulletproof wings, swung artfully designed swords, and bantered with each other as if this was just a jolly little jaunt. What were they? Where did they come from? Why did they exist?

The hitman pulled his hood over his head, stepping past the stunned group of people still standing.

Leave if you're leaving, they would always say. If you hesitate, you have already failed. As a fresh wave of smoke rolled past his feet, the hitman pulled out a journal and began to write.