He was always a quiet child.

As an adult, he preferred to keep to himself, opting for scout missions rather than joining the army on their expeditions. This choice granted him the isolation he craved amid the blistering desolation of the desert. The government kept a cautious eye on him, both wary and fascinated by his remarkable skill. As a scout, James was unrivaled, blessed with an almost eerie knack for unearthing valuable resources—a scarce talent that shone like a rare gem in the sun-scorched wasteland.

They tried to lure him into a broader role, dangling offers of a sturdier home—something more than the weathered hovels of Vega—and comforts like clean water or a reliable stockpile of food. When promises didn’t sway him, they stripped away his few belongings, leaving him with little beyond his motorcycle and his blade. Yet James remained unshaken, his expression as steady as the parched ground beneath his feet. He accepted each turn of fortune with a quiet resolve that confounded them. Eventually, General Edward Riesen, the hardened leader of Vega—once the dazzling Las Vegas, now a sand-swept stronghold—gave up the fight. Riesen reckoned James would one day need help, and when that moment came, the scales would tip. Until then, he let the solitary scout wander, so long as his hauls kept Vega alive.

When Vega’s creaking gates parted, James thundered into the desert on his motorcycle, tires churning a gritty haze of sand that bit at the air. His missions often spanned days or weeks, propelled by an unshakable instinct—a restless itch that only a find could scratch. He never knew what he was chasing or when it would appear; he simply trusted his gift to guide him across the boundless sea of dunes. This time, he carried enough gas for three days, the battered canisters lashed to his bike catching the sun’s brutal glare. He wasn’t fazed—his talent had always led him to fuel, hidden like a lifeline beneath the shifting sands.

After a day of riding, the heat bearing down like a furnace, James stopped to rest. The desert sun blazed overhead, turning the sand into a shimmering skillet that radiated searing waves. He shunned the idea of a nighttime camp, too vulnerable under a sky where shapes moved unpredictably. Instead, he propped himself against his bike, its engine cooling with faint ticks, offering a whisper of warmth against the sharp chill of dusk. By day, he pressed on, sweat streaking his face, the horizon a wavering illusion. Now and then, his gaze flicked skyward, catching the fleeting outline of something winged cutting through the haze—demon or angel, he could never tell. Who could, these days? Both descended with merciless intent, slaughtering humans on sight, their forms a distant terror against the washed-out sky.

This time, his gut pulled him off the familiar path, deeper into the desert’s unforgiving embrace. The trail ended at an abandoned warehouse, its frame rising from the sand like bleached bones scattered across the dunes. He’d seen enough of those in his time—human, animal, picked clean by the elements and left to bake under the relentless sun. This structure was no different, its walls scorched and flaking, half-sunk in drifts of sand, a skeletal monument to a forgotten era. James eased his bike to a halt, the engine’s rumble fading into the wind’s mournful keen. He swung off and shed his helmet, the dry air hitting his sweat-slick skin as he squinted into the glare. His keen eyes, freed from the visor’s scratches, roamed the scene. Lizards darted over the dunes, and a vulture wheeled lazily above, but a deeper pull tugged at his senses.

Frowning, he trudged toward the warehouse, boots sinking into the hot sand with each step. The heat was oppressive, the sun a relentless overseer, yet his instincts hummed that something lay within. He paused at the edge, scanning for threats—raiders, scavengers, or one of those winged horrors plummeting from above. Nothing moved. With a deft flick, he swept back his long leather duster, heavy with dust and grit, and drew his katana. The blade slid free with a soft rasp, its edge faintly gleaming. Guns were too loud, their blasts a siren call for trouble in this desolate sprawl—trouble like the creatures that ruled the skies. His swordsmanship, sharpened to deadly precision, outstripped even Vega’s toughest fighters.

He slipped inside, the warehouse’s interior a shadowed maze of ash and ruin, the air thick with the acrid bite of burnt steel. His footsteps echoed as he scouted the edges, finding only twisted metal and broken relics. Returning to the center, he stood among the wreckage, frustration etching his face. He sheathed his katana, the blade clicking home, and listened. The desert wind wailed through gaping holes, but beneath it, silence reigned—until the ground trembled. A low growl shuddered through the sand, and he leapt aside as the floor fractured, a section dropping away into shadow.

“Jesus,” he muttered, stepping to the brink. Dust spiraled up, stinging his eyes as he peered down. The drop unveiled a stark, white chamber, its walls shining with an unnatural polish that mocked the decay above. It felt like a laboratory, sealed from the desert’s ravages. Warily, he descended, the air cooling with each step, a stark reprieve from the inferno outside. His boots rang against smooth metal, the sound swallowed by the sterile hush. The white expanse stretched ahead, pristine and otherworldly, a buried fragment of a time before the world broke.

James’s pulse hammered. His itch had dragged him here, to a place that whispered of lost secrets—perhaps a vestige of the past or a faint hope for survival. His grip tightened on his katana, eyes darting to the corners. Above, the desert sprawled on, vast and pitiless, its winged predators circling unseen. Whatever awaited below, he’d meet it alone, a lone soul tempered by the heat and shaped by the unknown.

James descended the stairs, his boots clanging softly against the metal, and peered into the blinding white abyss below. A frown creased his brow as he struggled to discern anything beyond the steps, the space dissolving into a hazy smear. The lighting felt unnatural—too harsh, too glacial—or perhaps some strange enchantment obscured what lay ahead. He couldn’t decide, and the uncertainty set his nerves on edge. With a slow, steady motion, he rose and drew his katana, the blade’s familiar weight anchoring him. He stepped cautiously into the chamber, each footfall ringing in the frigid silence, and entered what could only be a laboratory. Unfamiliar machines towered around him, their purposes veiled—some bristled with scalpels and hooks, tools for tearing flesh, while others thrummed with an eerie energy, their surfaces alive with flickering lights and spinning dials.

He stopped short, his breath hitching. His katana dipped as his gaze fixed on a figure chained to the wall—a woman, or something close to it, her massive white wings spread wide in a stunning arc. She was stark naked, her full, firm tits jutting out, nipples so taut they looked like they could cut glass. Her raw vulnerability struck him like a desert gust, fierce and unfiltered, and he stood transfixed, absorbing the sight of her.

Her eyes snapped open, blazing with feral fire, and locked onto him. A guttural bellow erupted from her throat, twisting into a savage snarl as she lunged, her body straining against the chains that bit into her wrists and ankles. The restraints groaned but held, tethering her as she thrashed, teeth bared in a vicious snarl, her movements more beast than human. Rage poured from her, a torrent of fury that made his pulse pound. Yet beneath it, he glimpsed terror—sharp, splintered fear flashing in her wild eyes.

He took a step back, heart hammering. Those wings—stretching beyond a man’s reach—marked her as something unearthly, holy or hellish. An archangel, perhaps, though such labels meant little in this ruined world. How had she been caged here, bound like a rabid animal? He sheathed his katana, the blade sliding home with a faint click. She wasn’t a threat, not like this, not pinned and helpless. His eyes traced her wings, once pristine but now scarred—long gashes raked across them, patches where feathers had been yanked out, leaving raw, inflamed flesh. She’d been sliced open, examined, her celestial form reduced to a subject of torment.

He edged toward her left wing and lifted a gloved hand. Her head jerked toward him, eyes widening in a flare of panic, and she unleashed a shriek that pierced his skull. He pulled back, the sound rattling his bones, and she quieted, her chest heaving. Her reaction was pure instinct—rage and fear fused into a desperate burst. James weighed his options. He could leave her here, let her waste away in this sterile prison. She’d die eventually, starved or abandoned, or her tormentors might return to finish their work. Or he could free her—and risk her turning that feral wrath on him.

The choice gnawed at him, but her presence gripped him tight. He stepped closer, drawn by the clash of her fragility and ferocity. Her beauty was a wild, untamed force that stole his breath. Her scent hit him as he approached—sweat laced with something ethereal, sharp and electric. She pressed herself against the wall, wings trembling, her gaze tracking him with a predator’s caution. He drew his knife, its edge glinting, and her body tensed, muscles rippling beneath her skin.

He worked the blade with meticulous care, his breath shallow as he pried at her restraints. The cuffs were thick, bolted deep, but he chipped away, feeling her coiled tension as she held rigid. One by one, the bonds fell—wrists, then ankles—until the last chain clattered free. She collapsed instantly, knees slamming the floor, her wings flaring wide in a battered, majestic sweep. A snarl tore from her, low and menacing, and she surged upright, her movements jagged and unhinged. She spun, fury blazing through her frame, her full tits swaying with the motion.

Her wings crashed outward, a storm of white and power, but oddly, they never aimed at him. The force of her rage turned inward, toward the room itself—toward the machines and tools that had carved into her flesh. She lashed out, her wings smashing against the equipment with a thunderous crack, metal buckling and glass shattering under the onslaught. Sparks flew as she tore through the lab, her fury a primal reckoning against the sterile prison that had held her. Each strike was a release—of rage, of terror, of the pain etched into her scars. James stumbled back, pulse racing as he bolted for the stairs. Her wrath chased him, a tempest of feathers and vengeance, but it wasn’t for him—it was for the cold, unfeeling space that had broken her. He didn’t look back as he fled, her snarls echoing like a war cry, the desert trembling with the fury he’d set free.

It wasn’t until evening that James noticed movement from the laboratory’s sunken stairwell. He’d settled a safe distance away, crouched in the cooling desert sand, tending to a small fire he’d coaxed to life. The flames flickered weakly, fed by a meager pile of brittle twigs and dried scrub he’d scavenged from the dunes. A faint crackle rose as the fire licked at the wood, casting a dim, wavering glow across his weathered face. Nearby, a rabbit he’d snared earlier roasted on a makeshift spit—a lean, wiry creature, its fur stripped away, its flesh sizzling as fat dripped into the embers, sending up thin tendrils of smoke. The savory aroma wafted through the air, sharp and primal, cutting through the desert’s dry sterility. It must’ve reached her, stirring something in the depths below.

A small, dainty hand emerged from the stairwell, pale and trembling, fingers curling into the cracked earth. She hauled herself up, her movements jerky yet deliberate, like a predator emerging from its den. Her dirty blond hair, matted with grime, swayed as she shook her head, a low snarl rumbling from her throat. She sniffed the air, nostrils flaring, her senses honing in on the scent of cooked meat. Her wild eyes darted across the expanse, locking onto James by the fire. She froze, her body tensing, wings twitching faintly behind her.

James eased his knife from its sheath, the blade glinting in the firelight. Her gaze snapped to it, sharp and wary, but he made no move toward her. Instead, he sliced a strip of meat from the rabbit, the flesh dark and juicy, and held it to his nose. It smelled good—earthy, rich, fully cooked. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it toward her, his aim precise. The morsel landed inches from her face, kicking up a puff of sand. She snarled, baring her teeth, and retreated partway into the stairwell, her wings brushing the edges. She sniffed again, hesitating, then peered out. The meat’s allure was undeniable. Her hand shot out, swift as a striking snake, snatched it, and she ducked back into the shadows. The faint sounds of her tearing into it—small, ravenous bites—drifted up, and James smirked, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.

He carved off more pieces, methodically tossing them into the stairwell one by one—small, deliberate offerings that plopped softly against the metal steps. She didn’t emerge again, but he heard her shifting, the rustle of feathers and the muted crunch of her eating. Only when he’d baited her enough did he cut a portion for himself, settling back against his bike to chew in silence, the fire’s warmth seeping into his bones. The rabbit was tough but flavorful, its meat a rare comfort in the desert’s unrelenting harshness.

James despised torture. He knew its sting too well—scars crisscrossed his back and arms, faded but indelible, etched into his flesh by hands long dead. His mind bore deeper marks, memories of pain that lingered like ghosts. Watching her, he saw echoes of that suffering—her scars, her feral edge—and something in him softened, a quiet resolve taking root.

As night deepened, she crawled out again, her movements low and cautious, wings dragging across the sand like tattered banners. She crouched, eyes fixed on him, studying his stillness. He didn’t stir, didn’t flinch, his hands resting idly by the dying fire. The embers glowed faintly, casting long shadows that danced across her form. Hours passed, the sky lightening to a bruised purple, then a pale gold as dawn crept over the dunes. She edged closer, inch by inch, until she settled by the fire’s remnants, sitting with her knees drawn up, wings folded tight.

The sun climbed higher, its heat returning with a vengeance, and she began to shiver—her bare skin prickling in the morning chill that lingered before the desert’s full fury awoke. James stood slowly, his knees creaking from hours of stillness, a groan escaping his lips. She watched him, unblinking, as he shrugged off his long leather duster, the fabric stiff with dust and wear. He eyed her wings, gauging their span, then took his knife and sliced two rough slits into the coat’s sides. He held it out to her, and she frowned, tilting her head.

“To wear,” he said gruffly.

She stared at it, uncertain, her fingers twitching.

“Take it,” he urged, voice low but firm.

She reached out, hesitant, then grasped it. Rising to her feet, she slipped it on, the duster swallowing her slight frame, her wings poking awkwardly through the cuts. It hung loose, but it shielded her from the rising sun.

“We need to go back to Vega,” James said, meeting her gaze. “I need to take you to the General.”

She shrank back, wings flaring slightly, a flicker of fear crossing her face.