Angel of War

A hot tear ran down a dirty cheek, the ground rocking as another round of air strikes flowed around the little cellar with a metal door. Violet eyes full of water refused to blink, never wanting to forget the faces it could see. In her tiny dirty hands, a small silver heart lay open, her brother on one side catching a football in slow motion, from the last year she had seen him before he had moved away, on the other mom and dad, forever repeating a quick kiss on the forehead, and her mother’s beaming smile at the touch. Another missile fell too close for comfort, and for no more than a second, her eyes slammed shut as a cloud of dust invaded her dark sanctuary in the ground. Her lungs coughed and sputtered, and she waved a hand in the air to try to clear a space to breathe. The bottom corner of the door had been hit with a huge piece of rubble, ripping it off the hinges, the stormy sky staring back at her. Her locket let her look one last time before the screen glitched, slowed, and fizzled.

“No! No papa! No Baba I'm sorry!” she tried to shake it, blow on it, but nothing brought back the life in her moving pictures, and now all she had was the empty black heart shaped screen, framed in engraved silver. It was all she had left of them, a gift her mother had given her when Papa went off to fight the war. Four years she had kept it safe, until now, her tears blotting the metal as she closed it with a mournful click. “I’ll get if fixed, I promise. I have to.” Sobs interrupting her speech. “Momma, Papa I’m sorry.”

Hard metal screeched against rubble, and light flooded her vision, blinding her. The shadowy vision of wings with a human form standing in the light stared back at her, her eyes adjusting slowly.

“One survivor, sector 14, unconfirmed status.”

“Rodger” she heard crackle through the air, “Proceed with caution.”

Her vision sharpened more, and she could tell the navy-blue uniforms with the gold trim from the gray clouds. Her heart didn’t know whether to sink or soar, The Resistance!

“Confirmed child survivor. Female. What’s your name hun?” It was a woman's voice, for sure, but the tone change from strictly military to sweet southern isles left the girl’s mind stuttering and stalled out.

“S-s-s-Stella.”

“Stella. I am Sargent Brooks, okay? Does anything hurt?”

“No, I’m, I’m okay... my locket, please you have to help my locket.”

“Okay baby, we’ll see if we can help it okay? You have to come here though so you can be safe, they’re talking about another round of planes comin’ okay?”

Stella’s thoughts swam between her Granddads strong words after a few too many drinks about how the Resistance had ruined their way of life, and her Papa, dapper in royal blues, the golds shimmering under the single light bulb in their single bedroom the last time she had seen him. To trust or not to trust, the lady with wings on her darkest day.

“Where am I gunna go?” Stella had already decided she was going, using the walls to pull herself up out of the corner she had wedged herself into.

“Just to Westcott baby, we were able to save the city, that’s where all the survivors are going,” Brooks reached out her gloved hand, the mechanical flight wings catching on the broken door frame. Stella’s small filthy hand sliding into it and gripping hard, pulling with her full weight out of her hole, falling into the woman's chest.

“There now little one, I’ve got you. You said your name is Stella?” She was stroking the girls corn yellow hair as it shined in the light of the fading sunset, “It wouldn’t be Stella Kingston, would it?” The girl looked up, violet eyes scrunched in confusion.

“Yes, how do you know?”

“Daughter of General Kingston? With those same purple eyes, I’d know his kin anywhere.” Brooks clicked the radio strapped to her shoulder. “Brooks here. Successful recovery, Stella Kingston, permission to transport?” There was an awful few moments of crackle before the commanding voice on the other side responded.

“Air lift inbound, eta 5 minutes.”

“Your daddy’s gunna be so happy to see you baby, you’re all he ever talks about.”

“My daddy’s alive?” It had taken Stella a few minutes to process.

“Very, baby. Come on, let’s go to the pickup point so we can fly to him, okay?” Brooks lifted Stella up so the little girl could rest her head on her shoulder, her little arms locking around the woman’s neck. The wings curling around them like a shield, the fabric shimmered, and she could see around them as if nothing were in the way. “You relax baby, I’ve got you now. Ol' Brooky will keep you safe okay?" The woman smelled like the tea her Mamaw used to make when they'd go down to the isles for summer, sweet and sticky. A small smile crept onto the little girls face. She would see her Pappa soon, he could fix the locket, and she would never let go of his hand again, she swore to every god she could think of. It didn't matter where she was, as long as she had him, the world could be at peace.