(radio memory)
[The memory begins softly - the unfamiliar voice of a young girl, plaintive and frightened.]
Are we...not human?
[The voice that answers is, unmistakably, Kurayami's - but calm, gentle, detached, perhaps a little melancholy at most. The tone of an authority figure.]
Nobody knows what we are. For now, we call ourselves the [
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Don't be too long; he'll never admit he's actually kind of worried right now.]
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[With a growl, she shoves her wings through the flap and her arms into the sleeves and bangs out the door, stopping only to lock it behind her. The walk to Wellspring passes in long jumbled moments of wind against her face and the hollow rhythmic sound of her feet on the rope bridges. Finally, the clinic looms up in front of her, and...there he is, red hair blazing.]
Axel. [She slows to a stop, looking up at him. Her hands are holding shut her jacket - she hasn't realized yet that it isn't buttoned. There's something lost about her eyes.] Sorry I'm late. I...
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Nah, I was just early. [He can tell there's something off, but despite being incorrigibly candid a lot of the time, he knows that there is a time and place for bluntness, and this probably isn't it.] So what's up? It's been a while...
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[Awkward pauses. She swallows.] So, did the ice cream melt while I was taking my sweet time?
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So, how've you been? [WTF forced smalltalk? Come on, Axel, get to the point.] I mean, you've been pretty quiet recently.
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[She takes a deep breath, then turns and nods at one of the paths leading into the woods.] Walk with me?
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Shoving his hands in his pockets, he just moves silently alongside her, waiting for her to serve the ball.]
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The radio...
[She hesitates, not sure where to go from here. Licks her lips.] I knew that girl. I...think I know what happened to her.
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She was getting her wings.
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So you think everyone from your world has wings? [He really can't imagine what process of evolution would grant otherwise perfectly human folk with vestigial wings, but...]
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[She shudders involuntarily, and resettles her wings against her back- the memory is making the roots of her feathers itch.]
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