Reality can be such a drag with all its stupid expectations. It makes total sense that people want to escape into a realm of fantasy. Who wouldn't want a break from a world that seems to have forgotten how to be kind?
Ratelsi's realm was the sky; an infinite blue, always wide open with nothing but freedom waiting on its breezes. From an early age, she'd been aware of her place in the world as an anomaly who didn't belong socially or biologically. Normies could get pretty suspicious, and most of them practically recoiled at the thought of her kind existing at all. But Ratelsi had wings, and that changed everything.
Flap!
Just like that, she soared high above all that judgment and negativity. Honestly, if you had to ask, she'd argue that being stuck on the ground was fine for everyone else. But for her, once she felt the exhilarating rush of flight, the boring, solid ground lost all its charm - especially with all those cold, ugly glances around. Normies like to act like they have the right to glare just because someone's got scaly skin or can move things with their mind. Like they weren't into that kind of stuff in the movies.
If Ratelsi got an Aure[1] every time Normies made her feel like curdled milk, she'd be rich enough to buy the entire city two times over and still have Aures left to stroke the Primarch's[2] ego. But Ratelsi didn't lose sleep over shit like that. They could scowl all they wanted. Others' opinions were the least of her concerns. Leaning into that awareness was what she preferred to softening herself to make others comfortable. She owned the sky, and there was no way anyone could take it away.
Flap! Flap flap!
Ah, wings… Huge, stunning obsidian feathers. They weren't matte like a crow's, but vitreous, with a glassy sheen, their material defined by its relationship to light. Instead of soft, frayed barbs, running a hand over the flat of her feathers felt as smooth as polished marble, resembling conchoidal fractures found in knapped glass. However, moving against the grain would be lethal - the edges were capable of slicing skin. Permanently cold to touch, an odd feeling really, obedient too, meant to be extensions of her own body. It was wild, how simply by focusing her thoughts, Ratelsi could command them to levitate or multiply before her very eyes.
Her peculiarity allowed her to soar anywhere she desired. But because of the limitations, most of her flights took place within the safe boundaries of Argona's force field. She flew above the most beautiful place in Argona, Balun, the city's capital. Then there was the Sector Belt - Elvio, Sayge, Kakkis, amongst other towns. But those came with a shit ton of ridiculous rules and tiresome responsibilities enforced by the Cura and their police force, the Paladins - strict curfews, biometric checkpoints, mandatory spiritual rites.
Paladins[3] were recognized by their navy blue and black uniforms featuring long, flared sleeves, a high collar, and black trousers over boots. Their most distinctive feature was a long, gold V-shaped visor that completely covered their eyes. Armed with Detonators[4], Paladins strutted around like peacocks basking in the fear they created, sometimes patrolling the skies on Strider Mk. Vs[5], arrogantly flaunting their badges as talismans of authority, knowing they'd never be held accountable for their actions. Almost every street was a checkpoint and every Peculiar was a suspect.
Hilarious, really…
Pondering this with a smirk, a sudden buzz broke her train of thought - vrrr… vrr - and Ratelsi glanced at her HoloSmart[6]. The outer edges glowed faintly with a soft cyan-blue light, syncing with the neural net embedded in her spine. Small, illuminated icons circled the rim. Every Argonian had one, and hers was vibrating now to signal an incoming call.
A gritty outfit nicely accentuated her toned physique: an olive-green tank top with dark, micro shorts strapped with a leg harness. A studded belt cinched her waist, and helix earrings traced the curve of her pointed ears. Defined shoulders gave her upper body a graceful yet powerful silhouette. With another flap, Ratelsi landed on a shabby rooftop, crunching dusty, loose shingles beneath her chunky boots.
The narrow streets formed arteries of steel, brightened with neon lights above colourful walls, where, at its end, a holographic light glared in a red slash across the outline of a pair of wings. It was a zone-restriction sign warning: NO-FLY ZONE. Sighing heavily, Ratelsi's eyes glowed brighter as she recited a spell: Occultentur alae meae.[7]
The broad span of her wing fractured along pre-existing magical fault lines, its obsidian plates shuffling over one another as the feathers nested. Smaller plates slid beneath larger ones until an entire wing had compressed into a stony spine. And then the other. After fully retracting, her skin along the spine ripped open with a wet tear to receive the structure.
First came a gasp, then a choked snarl... but it sounded more like a stifled laugh.
Clenching her trembling fists, Ratelsi let out a breath, nails biting into her palms, and braced herself for what was to come. Then her posture broke, her knee buckled, arching violently in a reflexive spasm to create space for the incoming mass. Malachite pupils dilated until their irises were a thin, golden ring in a black void. While her nerves drank in the sensory overload, a tear ran down her cheek, but she didn't blink it away.
"Mmmmffghhh.." Moaning softly, Ratelsi listened to the sickening sound of her muscles shifting and bones sliding as the wings tucked into the muscular sheaths behind her ribs.
It hurt a lot. It hurt a whole fucking lot! It felt like a row of cold knives being stabbed into her simultaneously! But she was used to the pain. In fact, she... enjoyed it. A languid smirk pulled at the corners of her lips, eventually parting them to reveal gritted canines in a death mask grin. Flushed across her cheekbones and throat, she tasted the copper of her own tongue where she'd bitten it, swallowing the blood as if it were nectar. Her fingers clawed the dirt as the last of her feathers found home in the hollows of her back. Ratelsi remained there for a short moment, trembling, enduring the aching aftermath of her skin healing shut. Then she let out a shuddering sigh of disappointment that the torment was over before her expression fell back to its deadpan stare.
Another persistent buzz brought her attention to the HoloSmart on her wrist, the screen lighting up to reveal the time. 3:45 pm. She rose to her feet, scoffing amusedly, when she realized only ten minutes had slipped by during the haze of the spell. By all accounts, it was a personal record. A couple of months ago, a full wing retraction would leave her in agonising exhaustion for half a day or more. Now, Ratelsi simply shook out the lingering tension in her shoulders, impressed that her body had finally learned to snap back so quickly.
Then she swiped to accept the call. The holographic interface projected radial patterns above her wrist, morphing into a phone icon.
"Yooooo, Rat!! Are you draggin' your wings or what? You're not takin' a detour, are you?" This loudmouth through the speaker belonged to Timoth Kornt, a cheerful personality who had a knack for making the mundane feel bearable. He was maybe also her best and only friend, but that was beside the point. Timoth's boisterous shout sliced through the air, making Ratelsi tilt her head back to crack one eye open - malachite-green with slitted golden pupils fixed on the screen with a deadpan look.
"Honestly, I'm really impressed you got me thinking about ripping out your tongue," she drawled in a smoky voice. "Never have I fantasized about mutilation so quickly."
"Wow, that's delightfully barbaric. Shall I offer my vocal cords next? Or throw in a lung while I'm at it."
"Don't tease me, Timoth. I just might take you up on that."
Timoth's projected laugh filled the space. Calm and soothing, a sound she held dear. "Yeah, yeah…you say that, but with your tendency to get easily distracted when flyin', ten seconds could stretch into ten days before you make it to Oakeman."
Ratelsi waved a dismissive hand, letting out a light-hearted "Pfft," but she couldn't help the grin that crept across her full, pouty lips as memories of how they met at the Praesidium [8]flooded her mind.
Back then, before she mastered the spell to make them vanish, her wings had felt like a curse rather than a gift. They were massive, always catching the sun, seemed too sharp to carry around other students, always bumping into desks or bruising shoulders in the halls. To the bullies who took turns teaching her a lesson on the rooftop every afternoon, that extra space she occupied was an unpardonable offence.
She remembered it all: the weightless bodies pinning her down, the insults mocking her "clumsy, oversized sails," and the agonising crunch of heels grinding into her growing, sensitive feathers. But most of all, she remembered her effort of restraint. It would've been so easy to fling them off the roof and watch them fall. She was infinitely stronger than all of them combined. But then the heavy steel door creaked open, stopping her from doing just that. Out came the new student who'd thought the roof was empty and was trying to have lunch, freezing in his tracks at the sight.
"Uh, I can come back..." Timoth had mumbled.
Eight years together in that segregated academy for branded Peculiars, with its bleak, monastic environment, was where they trained to harness their inhumane abilities through spellcasting for "the good of man" and proper integration into society. Acolyte Noemie and her Sisters made sure to teach that Peculiarity was less a gift than a biological trauma. That it was a condition born of the Storm, one that only Liyuen possessed the power to tame. Many times, it made Ratelsi wonder whether the Goddess of Arcana truly saw Peculiarities as aberrations requiring divine oversight. Did she really have the time to dwell on such petty human things?
At the Praesidium, her friendship with Timoth blossomed as a stroke of luck in her otherwise exhausting life, and they've been kindred spirits ever since. Two years had passed since they graduated.
"Yunno, it's almost four, and we've got deliveries rollin' in, right?" his smooth tenor pulled Ratelsi out of her thoughts. There was that signature playful urgency in his tone. She rolled her eyes, quipping. "Yeah, I got the memo already." Another chuckle from Timoth softened her annoyance; its soothing sound always had a way of lightening her mood. Plus, he basically had a radar for detecting her half-baked plans and fibs, so there was no way to lie her way out of work. She decided to say, "If that glorified trash heap offered anything remotely resembling a good time, I might actually pretend to be excited. As it is, I'd rather watch paint dry than pretend that place is worth my time."
"Aw, c'mon, don't get all snippy with me, Rat." He grinned. "You know Broco's gonna throw a tantrum again if we don't get these deliveries out before midnight." Then his voice dropped into a tease. "He hasn't stopped watchin' you since that whole Mhode thing, yunno. I swear, it's like he's salivatin' for a slip-up."
Another chuckle, and she could almost picture the mischief in the vivid sky-blue of his eyes.
Ratelsi hummed, unwilling to torture her thoughts with the consequences of what happened last week. It was unnecessary to dwell on an incident she felt no ounce of regret about. Relieving the sensation of her talons digging into his cheek and tearing the skin open, her lips curled into a thin line, resembling a smug smirk. For the next few days, the sound of Mhode's heavy breathing and pained groans became her new ringtone. Man, it was easily one of the most gratifying things she'd done in ages! Consider it a hard lesson for the fool. He'd made a habit of treating her like personal property, letting his hand wander to her hip, tracing the small of her back, and touching her with that disgusting peculiarity of his whenever he walked past. And it sent a clear message to Styx and Vesir that if you mess with the raven, you'd better be ready to get clawed.
Still, she had to admit, racking up more enemies wasn't exactly the smartest plan right now.
"Just so we're 100% fucking clear, our contract with Broco ends tonight," she said, "and i'm not sticking around for one more second of his unsufferable crap. Fuck that arrogant prick, fuck his stupid errands, and fuck his miserable pennies. He thinks he can treat us like total shit and still expect us to pucker up and kiss his ass, so he can go rot."
Ping!
"Uh, Ratel…" Timoth interjected, sounding a little strained. "Actually, it's three deliveries now. Broco just couldn't resist paddin' the list."
Her malachite eyes darkened and took on a phosphorescent glow, like sunlight filtering through a heavy canopy of moss. "What!? Why?" she blurted out, a little high-pitched, startling the flurry of birds nearby.
Timoth inhaled sharply through the line. "I know, I know. Sorry, really." The faint scuff of boots in the background suggested he was pacing. "But…Broco's swearin' these clients are whales, and he's danglin' double our pay in front of us." A nervous chuckle bled into the static. "Double, Rat! That's hard to ignore! You know how long we've been talking about movin' to Sayge. This gig could actually be-"
He cut off abruptly as Ratelsi hung up the call, a frown creasing her face. Tch. Just how naïve could he be? Obviously, Broco was lying through his teeth. Again. Like they were too dumb to catch on. How dare he treat them so disrespectfully?
Eyes narrowed, she scoffed, "Double our pay. You could at least try to be more original, wanker," and kicked a few gravel stones off the rooftop. Their satisfying tumbles didn't really soothe her annoyance, though, so Ratelsi turned her attention to the golden rays scorching a thousand corrugated tin rooftops, turning the vast urban sprawl into an aluminium mirage. The air felt thick and viscous, like a convection oven baking the maze of buildings below. Yet, even under this brutal, natural illumination, the Underdistrict fought back with its own gaudy, electric heartbeat. Streetlights, prematurely lit with dying power cells, struggled to make their presence known against the sun's glare. Bright neon signs - blood reds, electric greens, and hostile magenta - sputtered down the grimy alleyways. Towering above it all, flashy digital ads on monolithic screens cycled through impossibly bright, smiling faces and unattainable luxuries. Their ultra-white glare momentarily blinded Ratelsi as she dared to look up at the skybridges crisscrossing cylindrical structures at various heights.
Even in daylight, Altown kept its glow.
"I'm gonna get you! Watch this!"
An abrupt, joyous cacophony of kids zipping past on patched-up hoverboards and worn skateboards swallowed the quiet hum of the neighbourhood. Immediately processing the audio feed like a volumetric topographical map, their shrieks of laughter, squealing wheels, and the loud clack-clack of decks hitting the pavement three blocks east coordinated in her brain. So loudly that she didn't need to see them - pointed ears twitched to the noise exploding in her auditory cortex, painting a perfect mental picture of the children's actions.
"Ha, you wish! Out of the way, move!" a girl yelled, followed by the frantic whistle of electric hoverboard motors and a sudden burst of breathless giggles.
"You're cheating, your battery's full!" someone else shrieked, then dropped into a dramatic groan as he got left in the dust. "Wait up!"
Ratelsi tilted her head back, soaking in the chaotic soundtrack, feeling it prickle her brown skin. What a bummer. She really didn't want to deal with helping Timoth with Broco's gifts today. But they didn't have many options. Delivery running was, in many ways, as honest as it got in a place like Altown. Especially when finding regular jobs was a hassle because of their "unpredictable" nature.
For a Peculiar, a stable job came from the Cura through an evaluation system called MAP tests. Passing these tests was the best way for a Peculiar to find easy access to good employment, better living opportunities and integration into society, which were heavily restricted for unbranded Peculiars - those without the Arcane Eye on their skin - or recusant Peculiars. Almost every legitimate job in Argona required evidence of a passed MAP certification. Those who failed were denied access to easy living and were subjected to constant suspicion and surveillance or were confined to Turris [9]to improve their state of mind, becoming residents of the rehabilitation facility, depending on the severity of their evaluation.
As a recusant herself, Ratelsi had long stopped taking those tests after graduating from the Praesidium. She loathed the idea that, as a Peculiar, she was inherently risky until proven otherwise. Or that she must demonstrate stability and utility to earn basic rights that Normies possessed by default. She also stopped listening to the Primarch's scripted daily speeches about every Peculiar saving a life by using their abilities. All that talk felt like empty theatrics meant to dress up how they monetised their powers. However, this choice made her unemployable in the formal sector, reliant on underground work, and living under constant suspicion.
So, no judgment here, right? Cool.
Perhaps, this time, Broco would actually follow through on his promise. And if he ended up pulling a stunt, well then, she'd happily teach him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. Her long black nails unconsciously flexed in and out as she thought of how she'd handle things if it came to that. Just hearing his stupid name was enough to bubble her frustration back to the surface! Defiant, Ratelsi approached the precipice of the eight-storey building, lifting her chin in rejection of the dizzying drop below as she stood on the crumbling edge... and pushed off.
The world instantly dissolved into a deafening, rushing wind. Ratelsi plummeted. The current seized her long, dark hair, streaked with white at the temples and bangs, whipping the voluminous waves into a wild cloud around her exhilarated face.
As the descent intensified to a free fall, a delighted smile stretched across her lips. She couldn't wait to unfurl her wings! It was way easier to let them out than to cage them in - a spell wasn't needed for that, only the will of thought.
Flap!
The black of her wings unfurled like ink spilling across the sky. Tilting her shoulder a bit to the right, she transitioned into a controlled glide, banking with the precision of a raven, gathering the air beneath her like a cloak, and watching the ground blur as she sped. Carefree. Effortlessly. Up, up into the afternoon clouds where there was no filth underfoot, no burden in the soul. A world in the sky.
Ratelsi let out a relieved sigh; she felt unabashedly alive! Adrenaline surged through her veins, making her heart race and lifting her mood; then she stretched her magnificent eleven-foot wings wide. Soaring eastward, the buildings below faded into a blur of shadows and colours.
[1] Aures are Argona's digital currency.
[2] Primarch is a title given to the highest authority in Argona, the High Priest of the Cura Supernorum.
[3] Paladins are the city's police force
[4] Detonators are long-range rifles specifically made for Venerite ammo.
[5] Striders are aerodynamic machines with a fin-like rear. They come in five models.
[6] HoloSmarts are metallic, cylindrical smartwatches. They're ubiquitous in Argona.
[7] Translates to: "Let my wings be hidden."
[8] The Praesidium is a segregated academy for branded Peculiars.
[9] Turris is latin for "Tower"