The wings felt soft, feathery, and delicate. Definitely not strong enough to carry a human. The boy waited as the scientists put it on him. They tied prickly straps around his legs. Cold gloved fingers jabbed into his leg.

And then, the wings. Their weight almost tipped him over. His body was too light, too scrawny for anything, but it was just the way they intended him to be.

The boy gnawed on his bottom lip. The vast expanse of the blue sky stretched out before him. One push and he would fall.

“Number 40,” a robotic voice said. “Trial 1.”

His body trembled as he walked up to the edge. The frigid wind whipped around him. He steadied his legs as he stared down into the never-ending darkness below. He tried to take deep breaths, but the collar around his neck made it hard to. His altered body felt too fragile, too unstable, as though with one touch, he would crumble.

The scientists behind him wore masks and visors, silent as they watched him with clipboards in hand. They were faceless demons, armed with knives and needles. The scientists never spoke to the subjects. They communicated to them only in pain.

100 subjects. 39 dead. He might be the next. The scientists never perfected the wings.

 “Trial start.”

Number 40 shook as he moved forwards. The scientists behind him blocked any means of escape.

The boy stared into the abyss below. His heartbeat thrummed through his body.

He jumped into the darkness legs first. If he died, so be it.

Fear trapped any sound threatening to escape from his lips. The air sliced his skin as he plunged downwards. His limbs spiraled out of control. He shut his eyes tightly and prayed that the fear would take him under before any of the pain hit.

But the wings unfurled and spread out, catching the air. And he was flying. The wings became a part of him, carrying him higher and higher. He let out a laugh, a crazed, animalistic noise. He marveled at the cold air coursing through his hair and the bronze canyon stretching into the far distance. The air whistled all around him. He opened his mouth wide, savoring the taste of dust in his mouth.

Number 40 soared up high, into the wispy clouds. Water droplets wetted his face. As soon as he ascended above the clouds, golden sunlight shone upon him, drying his moist nose. He gasped at the brilliantly azure sky. The boy then dove back down. He spun, twirled, and danced to the drumming of his heartbeat. He raced through the rocky canyon without fear, tracing his hands across the sides and cutting his fingers open on the sharp rocks. The pain felt real. Felt good.

Then, his collar buzzed. A signal, to go to the cafeteria, to go sit on the surgery table, to obey all orders. He must head back. Or the buzzing would become a shock. A shock would become a stab. A stab would transform into a harsh numbing pain that threatened to shatter his bones.

The straps and buckles of his wings became invisible chains. They tied him to his dark, dank cell. He was not free. If he wanted to be free, he would unbuckle the straps, so he would be free falling, diving to the ground without constraint.

 Just one click of the wings.

And he would be truly free.

 The boy remembered the small window of his cell, his only gateway to the world. He sometimes spotted winding rivers and snow-capped mountains in the far distance, illuminated by golden sunlight. These sights always disappeared too fast, as night came to swallow it all. These sights seemed meager, miserable, paltry, now that he was soaring through the air, feeling the world with his own body. He clenched his fists by his side.

He would rather join the darkness forever than go back to that.

 Click.

As Number 40 plummeted to the ground, the boy recalled watching violet skies of ephemeral nightfalls from his cell, every single day. It was the only thing he could look forward to. He would watch the sun descend into the horizon, mesmerized by its glow, day in, day out.

He would join with the earth as he came from it. Once and for all, he would be free.

The boy found a smile on his face as he fell.