Chapter Text
Maybe this would be what brought Egg closer to being human.
The flesh that melded with the sensitive bone and feather of his wings stretched dangerously, a tearing that shot hot pain through his shoulderblades and completely blinded the sensation of a rough hand further up, entangled in a black and teal mass of feathers.
The contrast of cold rocks and dirt pushing into his knees was painful, and the sharp edges that bit into him now were only given the mercy of being drowned out by the red that flowed from his back. The red, vibrant and opening its eyes slowly as skin parted, dripped warm and shiny down Egg’s back. It leaned into fabrics for safety from the shaking of his frame and soaked through the suit he’d spent so long picking out with Wemmbu.
Wemmbu, his best friend, who would lead him through markets and whisper to him how to reply and guide him on how to live. How to be like the masses, to not be a creature they found deplorable—like a demon; like a netherling—or even one they found intimidating—an angel, like Egg was. It was a tough balance, as his friend had described it, and one that he’d been working to slowly copy.
It had its limits.
Words and behaviours could be matched. You could masquerade in a way they saw you as one of their own, but only as far as they could hear; as far as they could pick up on. Their eyes were always far too much, even for a being that had what humans considered ‘too many’, and it was because of the simple fact they saw. They weren’t meant for observing, they simply existed in a way convenient to tear into the soul Egg tried so hard to protect. Protect from the dissection they’d messily work through until they could see him for what he actually was.
An angel.
For such an obvious realization, most could forgive the wings; could argue for a while that, maybe, he was more human than bird (because that’s what they thought at first, no angel has anything but pure white wings in their mind). But then they’d realize—whether it was an early prediction or the closed lids of skin that hid away bright blue eyes—they’d eventually put the pieces together.
They were, in the end, the biggest difference between him and humans. They were a big arrow that glowed and pointed to say ‘he isn’t like you’, and for as hard as everybody ignored it, it only lasted so long that their brains would turn a blind, hopeful eye. Afterall, you’d find no human with wings the same way you’d find none with so many eyes. You’d find no angel that acted like Egg the same way you’d find none that actively worked toward doing more.
And then, when they finally accepted that he was different—an angel, somebody above them that was wrong in a way only their subconscious knew—then what? Then they’d distance or scowl or hide. Then it’d be back to adventures with Wemmbu as he desperately reassured that as much as humans were cautious and disgusting to everybody but themselves, it was okay. It was enough to have each other. Even if it never really felt like it—no, it ached like the cold air on nerves that currently screamed in the back of his mind as they were exposed and tickled by plumes and feathers.
And to believe that, to some extent, Egg didn’t yearn in the back of his mind to be able to be perceived as normal, was naive. He’d not give anything in exchange for his being, but yet he’d also trade everything to pretend as if he did. And well, if one squinted—hard and fighting against the white hot sun that might’ve been the cause of the searing on his back or might not’ve—this could be what he wanted.
A snap sounded, cold and jarring against the warm that took up the entirety of the throbbing mess his right side made up, and the sensation had Egg gasping; keeling over in a way his ribcage scraped uncomfortably against his knees and his stomach pushed in to bring acid up to his throat. It hurt.
The way his vision blurred felt wrong, and the way he gagged and coughed felt like it was a side effect of his body messily stitching together the tissue at the back of his mouth as if to stop him from puking.
It didn’t work.
Red was only given the opportunity to blend with yellows and glass clear mucus.
Egg panted, forcing himself to bow his head—let his bangs press into the blood and vomit as he inhaled and exhaled in the putrid—as a cold hand grasped the left wing. Every instinct in him screamed of the bent feathers; the wrongness of somebody he doesn’t trust (Wemmbu, it was only ever Wemmbu) trying to touch them, but whispers coaxed Egg into shutting up. Into not whimpering or crying or begging to just please, not the wings, please.
Because it wouldn’t do anything.
It wouldn’t—not when they thought it’d make a good trophy, or a good selling item, or a good meat (memories of walking through a dingy market with Wemmbu popped into his mind, the demon rushing him past stalls of meats and cheeses and bread where feathers were plucked aggressively from pounds of flesh). And, really, he’s always had a good intuition—being an angel guaranteed he knew a bit too much of any possible situation—and, and—and. And, something told him there wouldn’t be a point even if all of that was true.
Skin spun thin like strings of spit bowing under the weight of gravity, and a pop that suddenly released the feeling of a heavy wing connected to his back had Egg digging his nails into his palm. The nerves stayed, frail and frayed as they twitched and bit at him, and only when a muddied boot pressed against black fabric did the entire thing rip free.
Free, like he would’ve been.
In a twisted, forced together way that one would expect from a hybrid trying to imitate a human, but nonetheless free. Regen potions might’ve helped if he did this himself, nothing but scars that nobody would see because they had no reason to suspect him of anything but dripping humanity, and maybe that’d be freedom.
Right now, though, it didn’t feel anything like it.
Wind blew gently, an action that would usually ruffle his feathers and yet did nothing but force Egg into dragging his arm up against his mouth and pressing his teeth into the fabric and tissue—the suit was ruined, now, blood and mucus and flesh staining in a way he never had to worry about as somebody who didn’t fight. The chill of it burnt, as if alone it worked to mend the gaping flesh and skin together again, hot presses that melded like metal against metal.
It didn’t work.
It didn’t work, and instead it only disappeared in a wisp a minute later to unmask his ears to the laughing and chattering of the people who’d kept him hostage for days now. Of the humans that took him when Wemmbu had left his treehouse and Egg was left to wander. Left defenseless in a way only he could be, subject to any particular group that’d been whispering since their arrival—an angel and a demon, a pair that took out a chunk of the server—that decided they wanted to get at them.
He had a feeling it would happen that morning. An inkling that he’d be taken (but, then, he could also expect to get out relatively unharmed).
And so, Egg wasn’t exactly surprised at being kidnapped—wouldn’t have been, even if he didn’t know (even if he was human, unable to predict or know inherently as part of who he was). Because people who had grudges always used him as the bargaining chip—a ‘weakness’, as he’d heard a thousand times over; Wemmbu swore it did nothing to stop him from keeping Egg around. People who had grudges were always harsh. People who had grudges were always as these humans were.
And then there was talk about his wings.
Maybe it was disgusting the way a spark of hesitant content passed through his heart, then, at the mention. There was no wonder of hurt or pain, just tired hope that maybe then he’d have succeeded at being what people thought of as normal. The usual alarm bells that’d ring through his head that this was different from usual, I’m not safe were completely gone. And maybe if Wemmbu had shown up earlier (where was he?), Egg would have lived with the want to have been stuck with them long enough they could have gone through with it.
But to be in the timeline where they did left nothing but sickness for the him that would feel that. The grossness at the thought mixed with the pain—of which was faded now, dulling and yet still pulsing with his heart, but still there. Still reminded him of the fact this never could have gone his way; never could’ve ended with anything else.
Muscles relaxing, Egg’s shoulders slouched slightly; his head turned and dragged teeth against his sleeve where he still bit it as his cheek smooshed itself against his arm. There was a bit of commotion, closer to edge of camp, and the light shakes of ground was nothing he wasn’t familiar with.
Flashes of purple hair and a loud voice and warm care was all he could think of.
The knowledge of his best friend finally arriving, the knowledge he’d had killed every single one of these people for nothing, was all he could think of.
It tamped down the happiness of Wemmbu being here and left only bitter regret that tasted like chorus fruit on his tongue. The taste almost felt real, like the pasty flesh was actually in his mouth, amidst the lack of any other sensation—admist every other sensation, shaking nerves and snapped bone exposed to the sky above.
Egg curled into himself.
In the end, he’d tried. Maybe he hadn’t succeeded, but he had tried to be what they wanted.
Egg had tried to be human.
Wemmbu was a good teacher.
Maybe he almost was.