Taking Wing

It was a new sensation. The wind was not constant like he would have thought. There were gusts that tugged at his hair as they passed through air currents and soft caresses as the steady momentum carried them through warm, stagnant air. He could almost imagine that he was alone there, soaring above the rivers and fields and forests. He kept his head tucked into his forearms on his knees, his eyes closed, simply feeling the tug of the wind and toss of hair. He slipped his toes off the edge, to lessen the feeling of stability that held him near the Gundam.

He sneered gently at himself. To loose his Gundam in the battle was bad enough; to be saved by this pilot was a lesson in humility. The self-destruct hadn't really done him any damage—he flexed his hand experimentally. It wasn't as though he couldn't have walked away from it again. Yet that pilot hadn't let him be. He'd agreed to the transport simply to get the other boy to shut up.

And here he was—sitting in a sling under the Gundam's cockpit with his head down and his feet dangling. He sighed—at least no one would see him. The Gundam's visual sensors were not in a position to watch and no one could see him from the ground. He doubted anyone saw the hulking Gundam.

He lifted his head as the air currents shifted. The land was coming to take him back, to bind and hold him to it. He didn't want to belong to this planet—he glanced up—he wanted to stay in flight. The air was so soft and the stars so bright. It was impossible. The mass of ground was looming ever closer, and he pulled his shoulders back and up, sitting stiffly as the camp and people came into view. The mask settled again and the Perfect Soldier leapt to the ground in one last defiance of gravity and shouldered past the mechanics. The earth had stolen from him what war had given humanity—an insane longing for home and freedom.