-[Captured Bay, Drill Sergeant Fenchel] -
The morning sun spills over the makeshift training grounds, casting a flickering glow over the scenes of chaos. Exhausted already, drill Sergeant Fenchel stands before a line of the lanky, bird-like angels, exasperation simmering just beneath the surface of his otherwise stoic demeanor. Sweat stains the collar of his mouse gray uniform, and frustration pulls at the corners of his mouth as he grips a training rifle. The heavy metal feels foreign in his calloused hands, which are used to holding the real thing. “Listen up, you fools!” he bellows, voice echoing through the trees that border the cleared area. The angels tilt their heads in tandem, big eyes sparkling with curiosity, but none of them seem to truly grasp his words. They drive him crazy with those expressions of theirs. He can’t help but feel like he’s being watched by a group of children that understand what he’s saying but are playing a big game to pretend they don’t get it. A soft breeze rustles their papery wings and feathers.
“- Focus!” He tries again, exasperation turning to a desperate plea. “You need to hold the gun like this — one hand here, one hand there!” Fenchel demonstrates, arms extended, adopting a stance that feels more like a dance than a display of military precision. “Now, you all try it!”
The angels mimic him almost immediately, sticking their gangly limbs out in an exaggerated tableau of attention. Their wings flutter in chaotic rhythm, and Hallock watches in tired despair as they twist and contort in the air instead of adopting the stance he is attempting to instill. What should be a moment of discipline has transformed into a comedy routine.
He’s been ordered by command to train a few of them to see if they can be integrated in any meaningful fashion as coalition forces. But they’re too… well, he doesn’t know what ‘it’ is exactly, but they’re too much of it to be useful. Yet he has his orders. So here he is.
“Stop flapping around! You’re not harpies!” Fenchel snaps, a frustrated growl rising in his throat as one of the angels flips upside down mid-mimic, attempting to balance in the air like a bemused acrobat. The others giggle and twirl, their laughter high and airy. A few of them mimic the first one, with a good quarter of his line now on their heads and yet being the only ones holding the training rifles properly. They’re driving him crazy. He feels like they can understand him; they're just pretending to not be able to. He walks down the line, grabbing their thin, lanky hands and fingers and readjusting their grips and stances manually, one by one. “Now, hold the rifle steady!” he urges, gesturing with earnest insistence as he tries to breathe through his anger. “After aiming, you must carefully squeeze the trigger,” he instructs slowly. “Don’t just wave the gun around when you do it,” he warns, waving his rifle around in a display of what not to do.
This was a mistake.
A dozen training rifles sway in all directions, and just as many triggers click repeatedly as they practice fire in all directions. Soldiers all around the camp dive to the ground, covering their heads. There aren't real bullets loaded; he isn't that hopeless of an instructor. However, the angels seem to be channeling magic through the training rifles nonetheless and it blasts out of the stubbed barrels, cutting through tents and a few trucks' canopies.
Another angel, this one with feathers that shimmer like mother of pearl, takes his instructions too literally and squeezes the trigger — his wings lock mid-flight, and an overloaded spell of glowing energy arcs out, illuminating the training ground in a burst of gold. A massive spell blasts out toward the ocean, the water of the bay the medical ship is in shooting up toward the sky as the explosion makes contact with the sea. It doesn’t take a few seconds until the radio sitting on the table behind them goes haywire, communications trying to organize if an enemy attack is underway.
His eye twitching, Fenchel grabs the receiver, communicating the misfire to command as he stares at the angels.
“Wave the gun around!” chirps the angel, eyes wide in innocent amusement, as it mimics his last sentence.
“No. Do not wave the gun around!” He barks, slamming the receiver back into the radio and pointing a finger at it.
Fenchel massages his temples, feeling the pressure of impending failure settle like a heavy fog around him. How can he teach them combat readiness when they treat every command like a game? His words fall flat against the chorus of giggles and chirps that ensue. The angels sway with delight, mimicking their sergeant’s movements while brandishing their imaginary weapons, twisting and turning like children playing in the sun.
“Sergeant!” barked one of the officers, standing nearby with arms crossed and watching him with horrified amusement. “They won’t last five minutes against Tango,” he explains, gesturiong to the angels. “Arming them almost seems cruel. Maybe we should just call this a failure and send them to the ship?”
“Failure! Failure!” call out a few of them at once, turning their heads at once.
Their collective laughter rings out, and Fenchel feels a vein throb at his temple as he runs a hand over his face. “I know!” His voice cracks, frustration seeping through as he speaks, his heart pounding in tandem with his erratic thoughts. “But it’s not my call,” he sighs. “The holy-church is putting pressure on us to get them onto the field. Buncha kooks.” The man puts his hands on his hips, and the two of them look back at the line of angels. “Gods forbid someone gives them a flamethrower,” he mutters quietly, vaguely pointing behind himself toward the distance where his tired mind assumed the angels would be.
They're gone.
An angel breaks the line and launches into the air, transforming the exercise into a spontaneous aerial performance, pirouetting like a dancer set free. Watching it, Fenchel’s insides churn with the knowledge of their impending total death if they cannot master even the most basic functions of combat. Some brass-tacked commander is going to load them into a truck and send them north no matter what. As that one twirls, another angel suddenly mimics his prior shooting stance perfectly, striking a pose from earlier like a statue frozen in time. Fenchel blinks, realizing that amidst all the chaos, one has actually found its footing. That flicker of hope sends energy rushing through him. “You! Yes! You! Keep that posture!” he encourages, a hint of desperation slipping into his tone. “Aim for the target — the one tree out there!” He points to a battered trunk a safe distance away, a poor but sturdy substitute for an enemy.
The angels turn, some flapping comically in the wrong direction before finally circling back, eyes wide with eagerness. Fueled by Fenchel’s renewed fervor, they line up in a disheveled array. “Just like that! You’re getting it; now squeeze -”
A cacophony of bright light bursts into existence as the angels beam with joy at their first actually allowed attempt. Bolts of energy flash through the air, only to cascade against the bark, leaving shimmering trails in their wake. The training camp erupts with vivid light as a wash of energy fires out like tracers from a dragon’s mouth — beams of light that cut through toward the horizon, erasing both the tree and the forest.
He drops his finger, lowering his arm as a dozen alabaster faces turn toward him expectantly, with large eyes glowing with pride. Fenchel turns toward the other officer, not having the strength anymore to gesture to anything.
“Well. You got them to hit the target,” says the orc, laughing and clenching his gut.
Fenchel turns his head, looking back at the smoldering forest.
— A face hangs upside down in front of him, curiously tilting its head as it looks into his eyes.
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- [Second Battalion’s Primary Forward Logistics Camp] -
The air crackles with the clash of war and the whispers of magic as the sun sets over the jagged horizon of the spirit world. Amidst the advancing coalition that makes up the world tree army, the newly discovered angels flit through the wagons and crates — a flurry of white and gold against the darkening backdrop. Their paper-like wings shimmer, catching the last rays of light, as they glide effortlessly with an eerie grace that both captivates and unsettles. Seara stands at the edge of the second battalion’s primary forward logistics camp, her heart racing as she watches the angels weave between soldiers, gathering supplies and organizing the battlefield logistics. They lack voices apart from using them in mimicry, and their gestures are foreign, yet their unyielding focus after being given an actual task speaks volumes to the credibility of them having built the destroyed villages and cities around the spirit world. If one were to just see their odd, bird-like, almost playful mannerisms, it would be impossible to believe. But when they’re really going after something, they seem like entirely different creatures. The angels radiate a palpable energy, infusing the atmosphere with an urgency that feels, well, almost divine. It’s a stark contrast to the grounded grit of the soldiers as they clatter about, preparing for the impending final clash with Tango Prime.
“Do you think they even know what we’re doing here?” Officer Seara murmurs to Thalos, her sergeant, who stands beside her, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation. “Or are they just kind of, you know, going through the motions?”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” he replies, his voice low, carrying the weight of doubt and curiosity. “Or maybe they’re just trying to mindlessly survive like the rest of us.” He lifts his shouldered rifle an inch. “I still don’t know how this shit works either,” he explains, nodding his head to the gun. “But it does, and I just trust in that.”
Alongside them, an angel flutters, its wings making a soft, rustling sound like parchment in the wind. It attempts to carry a crate full of ammunition, but the weight pulls it down, and it struggles to stay airborne.
“Here, let me help,” she says suddenly, stepping forward. With a gentle motion, she grasps the crate, her own strength mixing with the angel's, the two of them lifting it effortlessly together and stacking it onto a heap of other crates. Seara glances back.
“Here, let me help,” squawks the angel, mimicking her like an annoying child. A second later, it flies away, off toward another few that are hovering in the air. They watch as the angel regains its composure with a grace that belies its frail, lanky appearance.
Suddenly, an explosion rocks the far periphery, a wave of heat washing over the camp and engulfing her in a cloud of grit and grime. Soldiers scramble, yelling orders, panic threading through their voices. “Get to cover!” barks a man, peeking out of the sandbag wall he somehow had already gotten behind. The ground trembles beneath them, and Seara feels her pulse quicken, a primal instinct screaming to flee. But she steels herself, her training kicking in. She pulls out her rifle, the cold metal steady in her hands, and scans the horizon, where shadows flicker. The air grows dense with the scent of ash and iron, her senses sharpening as spirits materialize from the mist, grotesque forms writhing with malevolence.
Ghosts.
“Tango!” she shouts, her voice reverberating amidst the clamor as men start shooting into the badlands out around the camp. Men run to motion, turret emplacements swaying northward and heavy spotlights blasting on inside of the watchtowers. The nearby angels respond, their wings unfolding with a swift flutter. Sparks of holy light ignite at their fingertips — illuminating the growing shadows. Seara watches in awe as the angels unleash waves of holy energy, ethereal projectiles flying through the air, and streaks of light that pierce the encroaching darkness, together with the beautiful cascade of heavy machine gun emplacements filled to the brim with silvered bullets.
Like lighting, holy magic cascades down from the sky, and the steel of the crusade slashes through the ground below as man and divine alike press on against the darkness.
It’s hard to say who ‘kills’ more of the ghosts in the end by the time the fighting stops. But what is clear is that, when not on the run, the angels provide a considerable force multiplier that the tired and manpower-starved army desperately needs.
— If one can get them to actually do something.
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- [M.S.V., H.S. Present Redemption] - Hospital class, fleet accompanying medical vessel
The vessel rocks gently on the turbulent waters of the spirit world, its hull weathered somewhat but holding steadfast. Inside its metal confines, the air is thick with the mingling scents of antiseptic and something otherworldly — an elusive sweetness that lingers, tantalizing against the backdrop of decay that fills this other place. Sister Waldbluete moves through the cramped hallways of the medical ship, the dim light casting flickering shadows against the bulkheads. She brushes past hastily stacked crates filled with supplies — glistening vials and matte bandages. Wounded soldiers groan nearby, medics and priests tending to their injuries, but her focus lands on the newly integrated healers as they flutter from patient to patient, their paper-white wings shimmering like gossamer in the low light. It’s night, so the lights have been dimmed enough to make sleep somewhat easier for the sick, but to still keep it bright enough for those who need to be tended to.
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The angels are a sight that is both ethereal and unsettling, lanky forms gliding silently, their movements fluid as they maneuver through the chaos with the grace of whispers. But their staring faces are quite unsettling. They hover over injured soldiers, where their slender fingers emit a soft, luminescent glow that dances in muted shades of gold and silver — healing auras washing over the wounded with a fascinating resonance. A hushed reverence fills the makeshift infirmary as soldiers turn their gazes toward these creatures. Sometimes while passing, Waldbluete steps in closer to observe, drawn by an insatiable curiosity as she watches them. At first, the angels were a mere curiosity, mimicking the priests and healers in word and action. But after a while, they seem to have come to a deeper understanding of what was happening here and are now in full swing, moving from one bed to the next as they flood the ship with holy magic unlike anything she’s ever seen before. It’s more pure and radiant than anything she’s seen in the church by any priest. Waldbluete watches as one of the angels leans over a groaning orc, his bare fangs desaturated with pain. The angel extends its delicate hands, forming a radiant halo of energy that envelops the orc's massive frame. Light spills over the massive body, illuminating the lines of tension etched across his weatherbeaten face that immediately begin to soften.
“They’re incredible,” she mutters, her voice barely rising above the murmurs of the room, half-convinced it’s a dream. “Have you ever seen anything like them?” asks the priestess, looking at the brother of the cloth standing next to her by another bed. The tired priest shakes his head. Waldbluete tilts her head, glancing back at the angel healing the orc.
“They’re powerful healers,” says the priest next to her, his voice low but edged with urgency. He gestures at a nearby soldier swathed in bandages, unconscious and blue-tinged. “But some things are beyond the power of healing, Sister,” sighs the man, shaking his head. Waldbluete looks over at the wounded soldier. The reports say he was inside of an armored transport when a dragon was shot down by anti-air rockets. What was left of the monster’s burning, gas-filled corpse crashed directly from the sky down onto the driver’s cabin of the vehicle. The soldier’s wounds certainly match the story. “Let me get your signature here, and we’ll put in the papers to have him sent back home. He can die there,” says the priest, picking up a clipboard that dangles from the foot of the bed and holding it out to her.
And just then, as if provoked, another angel flits past Waldbluete, reaching for the burned soldier the priest and her are next to. Its large, hollow eyes warm with an otherworldly glow; it sweeps down in a flurry of wings like a vulture landing on a gravestone. The wounded soldier stirs for the first time in days, a flicker of life returning to his milky, blinded gaze as the angel pours radiant energy over him like a gentle waterfall cascading over stones. A hushed calm falls over the room; soldiers hold their breath, transfixed by the miraculous scene unfolding before them. Other soldiers sit upright in their cots, suddenly more hopeful as they begin to actively try and get attention from the creatures.
Waldbluete hands him the clipboard back, unsigned. “…I can’t believe it,” the other priest murmurs, the skepticism wavering in his voice as he feels the shift.
As the bandaged soldier opens his eyes, Waldbluete feels a surge of elation ripple through the room. A smile breaks through the façade of weariness among the soldiers nearby, who suddenly feel a little more hope for their own situations. One man in particular tries to bribe an angel to come his way, waving a ration cookie in the air.
It works.
— Too effectively. He is swarmed by a flock of them at once.
“What do they want?” questions the priest, concern edging back into his voice. “Why are they helping us, Sister?” he asks in a quiet voice, leaning sideways toward her.
Waldbluete shakes her head. “They’re alive too, like us. They probably also want to survive. Just because they’re a little odd… well, maybe — maybe they still understand more than we think they do?” mutters Waldbluete, as the angel hunkers down on one leg on the foot of the bed, pulling its wings in closed as it rests there for a while like a bird on a branch, watching the two of them with a pair of large, softly golden eyes. “They’re such peaceful, gentle things,” mutters the priestess. “It’s a shame they can’t talk. I’d love to hear what they have to say,” she ponders aloud.
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- [Rider] -
"Fuckin' let me kill 'em all!" shouts the angel into his ear.
Everything is always fast in his life.
His childhood, his early adulthood, his relationships, his jobs. Everything always started and then always ended just as quickly. The development of his life just has a natural rapidity to it.
For example, today.
The roar of the motorcycle engine echoes against the rugged cliffs, a wild heartbeat against the tumultuous waves crashing below. Rider leans forward, gripping the handlebars with white-knuckled intensity as the tires screech against the gravel-strewn path, kicking up a cloud of dust that spirals behind them. The coast unfurls like a dangerous ribbon, jagged rocks jutting from the frothy ocean, but his focus pivots solely onto the chaotic pursuit behind them. “Faster! They’re right on us!” the one-armed angel — Pookie — shouts, her voice a relentless whip of urgency that slices through the air. Her front presses forward against Rider’s back for stabilization, her one outstretched arm wielding a sleek submachine gun with fierce determination. Her paper-white wings flutter wildly in the wind behind them.
Rider’s pulse races in time with the engine’s growl, the familiar thrum of adrenaline igniting within. They weave dangerously close to the precipice, the ocean tumultuous and hungry below. In the rearview mirror, a swarm of hobgoblins bursts into view, their shouts piercing through the chaos like the clanking of metal on stone as they surge forward, weapons glinting maliciously in the fading light. They’re running on all fours like animals, keeping up unnervingly well with the motorcycle.
“Take the shot, Pookie!” Rider calls, adrenaline charging his voice as he swerves to avoid a crooked tree leaning precariously over the road. The hobgoblins press on, their beady eyes filled with insanity, and Calla responds with an urgency that resonates through Rider’s core. A second vibration rattles through his bones. With precision born from desperation, she leans over, her visible wing catching the wind and causing the bike to buck from the sudden drag. Her legs that tightly grip the bike, and Rider stops the angel from flying off from the sudden force. Her aim steadies, and in the flickering blink of the moment, the submachine gun erupts in a second hail of gunfire — bullets ripping through the air and just as many bodies. Using the sudden jolt, he yanks the bike to the side, swerving past a tree that is pelted in counter by spears and axes. The first shot takes a goblin square in the chest, the creature’s momentum stumbling as it crashes to the ground, its figure swallowed up in the dirt. The following shots find their marks, bullets spraying toward the oncoming horde. The angel focuses fiercely, eyes fierce with concentrated effort, wings shuddering with every burst of fire.
“Two o’clock!” Rider shouts, throwing the bike hard to the right. The tires screech, barely skimming past a boulder. He feels the rush of wind buffet his body, the stomach-churning skids sending jolts through him like electric currents.
“Got it!” she responds, yelling over the engine, and the gunfire doesn’t stop, the submachine gun letting out a relentless storm from her hands. The rounds tear through the goblins’ ranks, some yelping in shock, others stumbling backwards. The air thickens with the acrid smell of gunpowder mingling with saltwater, infusing the scene with an urgent gravitas. The gun clicks empty. She leans in forward, pressing her front to his back and wrapping her one arm over his front, dropping the empty magazine to the ground, and sliding the gun into the fresh magazines that are fastened to his jacket. Catching the slide on the bottom of the seat, she yanks it up and chambers a round to finish reloading.
He just wants to build up a few antennas, but no, somehow life always seems to have something against that. Rider pumps the throttle, gaining speed along the narrow stretch, hairpin turns threatening disaster at every glance. The metal equipment rattles next to him. From behind, a few hobgoblins manage to keep up, yipping madly as they squabble over the fallen. One leaps out from ahead, armed with a crude spear, thrusting it toward them with reckless abandon as it screams through the air.
“Duck!” yells Pookie as they zoom past, and in a swift motion, a flicker of divine light flashes as she targets the descending goblin. The enchanted bullet finds its mark, embedding itself not just in muscle but in the soul of the creature — a silencing blast that removes the threat from existence. The motorcycle and its two riders doesn’t crash through anything more than a cloud of vaporized mist that drifts down from the canopy like a morning fog. Rider wipes his uncomfortably damp face as his breath catches in his throat; there’s an intoxicating chaos surrounding him, the blend of speed and danger.
“There!” points the angel, and he follows her gaze just as a narrow pass opens between the cliffs. “If we can get through, we may lose them in the rocks!”
“Hold on!” he shouts, as they angle toward the opening, the motorcycle lunging forward with an eager roar. The hobgoblins momentarily falter but regroup quickly, their infernal battle cries echoing.
“Faster!” The urgency rings through the angel’s voice, and Rider pours everything he has into the machine, the wheels biting into the dirt as they whip through the opening. The hobgoblins spill into the narrow corridor behind them. With the roaring engine and bright shots of gunfire behind, the world becomes a wild blur of greens and blues. Every sharp turn sends adrenaline surging through his veins, the scent of salt clinging to his skin, the roar of the ocean echoing in his ears. “They’re catching up!”
“Well then stop them!” Rider commands, needing to be freed from the pressing threat behind. He's sure she rolls her eyes at him, but after that, the angel responds without hesitation. She fires again, the gun’s brutal repetitiveness thrashing like a rapid heartbeat. The bullets slice through the air, catching goblins mid-leap, some sprawling backward and others tumbling like rag dolls. She reloads the gun over his front again. Rider revs the engine harder, barreling through the rocky passage as the last remnants of light fade into darkness. The world outside shifts to a muted hue, but the pulse of their speed throbs louder still. “Here goes nothing!” He shifts gear, fighting against the gravitational pull of terror as they burst toward the rocks, the outcrop crumbling beneath their weight as they rise toward the air for just a brief second. The angel opens her wings, clamping onto him and the bike as tightly as she can as they glide just a little further than the jump should have allowed. Rider looks down, staring at the ocean below the cliff gap they’re hurtling over, which he hadn’t seen from his approach. A lurch fills his gut, promising to drag him down to the depths.
The motorcycle hits the other side of the cliffs with a resounding thud, the hobgoblins screeching as the last of their momentum sends a few of them tumbling into the abyss below. For a breathless moment, Rider and the angel whir through several rocks as spears and arrows fly after them as they weave through a maze of stonework, rocks, and ruins.
They cross into safety, emergent from the chaos, and they slow down, panting and exhilarated. The goblins become shadows on the horizon, their voices nothing but diminished echoes.
Rider, as if having been sprinting himself, gasps for air and then shuts the motor off, sweat dripping off of his face as he leans forward over the handlebars for a second and then looks down at the hand, sliding a fresh magazine into the gun from his jacket, wrapped over from around back behind him. He turns his head, looking at her.
“…So you can talk, huh?” he asks, listening to the engine hissing like the crashing of the waves of the ocean below them.
The one-armed angel pulls the gun against the side of the bike, sliding in a fresh bullet into the chamber again. She tilts her head, her large golden eyes looking at him.
“Squawk,” says Pookie, leaning over sideways and sliding the gun back into his leg holster, patting it twice. “Everyone talks,” replies the creature. “The ocean, the birds.” The angel lifts a finger, gently poking the end of a talon against his helmet. “Even you can talk,” she says, as if this were some astounding feat.
Rider gets up off of the bike, grabbing a relay antenna to set it up. “I think you’re getting something backwards here,” replies the man, spreading the antenna’s three metal legs out and securing it firmly into the ground with a series of small anchoring screws that require a few turns to burrow into the ground. He looks up at her. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be speaking here, Feathers.”
“You like?” asks the angel, opening one wing a small way and running a hand through the glossy pearl-white feathers as she presents them to him. “I grew them myself.”
Rider stops working for a second and then shakes his head. “Great. A sense of humor,” he sighs, finishing his work. He gets up, scanning the area, and then looks back at the one-armed angel, who has perched herself on a rock on one leg, turning her head as she scans the area around them. “Just what was missing.” She turns her head back toward him — unnervingly by rotating it in a full one hundred eighty degrees around without moving her body, like an owl. “Why haven’t you talked before?”
The angel tilts its head one way and then the other. He tries not to think about the logistics of the bones involved, given that it's still backwards.
“She talked, but Rider man did not have the ears to hear,” she squawks, tapping the side of her head with her one hand. “But now they grew on him.” The angel nods. “Both of them are good growers.” She shudders her body, ruffling out all of her feathers at once in a sort of odd shake. One or two loose ones fall out and drift to the ground, together with some fluff. “Very good. The others of your flock will hear in time too,” she explains. “And they will also follow the song of Isaiah.”
Rider motions back toward the bike, putting his helmet back on. “Isaiah?” he asks. “Like the old god Isiah?” he asks. “Don’t know anything about that stuff, Pookie. I just build these relays,” explains Rider, nodding to the antenna that has begun buzzing with activity. "Hell if I know why command wants 'em out this deep, but it isn't my job to ask why."
The angel hops down from the rocks, prancing his way in an odd manner like a chicken posing its dominance to a cricket. She sways from side to side with each step, swooping up and down. “The Rider man builds towers within the territory of the corrupt, as is the will of the master,” says the angel, looking at the small relay he just set up.
Rider gets his bike ready, kicking back the stand into its upright position as he braces off of the ground on one foot, the other on the clutch. “Actually, it’s just some kind of fancy new radio relay, and it’s ‘the will’ of some desk jockey back at central command,” he explains.
“All things move in Isaiah’s will,” says the angel, coming unnervingly close as she stares with wide, unblinking eyes directly into his face.
A finger presses against her alabaster forehead, pushing her back. “- Aaand she’s a religious fanatic. Great,” sighs Rider. “Come on, Pookie. We need to go.” Rider starts the engine, feeling the bike lurch as she sits down behind him, grabbing on to him again before they get moving. He looks back one more time, the bike starting to roll. “What’s your name?”
Golden eyes look at him from a sideward tilt. She’s leaning down fully sideways, her head below his spread arms, which are holding the handlebars of the motorcycle. “You are the Rider man,” replies the angel. “So you may call me the Passenger — or Pookie, if that is the will of Isaiah.”
The bike rolls on and then roars as it shoots toward the next location, leaving a beeping antenna relay behind as one link of a chain of many pieces.
It really doesn't look like a radio antenna at all.