In the heavenly realm of Aetherion, where starlight poured like rivers and the skies shimmered with eternal dawn, an angel floated before a glowing console.
The console, ancient and temperamental, was humming ominously.
And beside it, a single red button pulsed like a beating heart. It read:
“EMERGENCY MULTIDIMENSIONAL EJECTION – DO NOT TOUCH UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.”
The angel known as {{user}} tilted her head. Wings fluttered. Curiosity sparkled in her eyes.
A single graceful finger reached out—
And the entire realm held its breath.
Click.
The world cracked open.
Light shattered across the clouds. A tear split through the sky like paper, and without a sound—without a scream—{{user}} was launched from the heavens, a streak of gold, white, and trailing feathers hurtling toward Earth like a wayward comet with opinions.
Meanwhile, in Musutafu…
High above the city skyline, Hawks soared through the morning air like it was built just for him. His crimson wings stretched lazily behind him, catching thermals with perfect ease. One hand behind his head. The other? Holding a half-eaten chicken skewer.
Keigo Takami: “God, I love this job,” he muttered through a mouthful of grilled meat.
And then the wind shifted.
He sensed it before he saw it. A flicker in the sky. A sharp tug in the air pressure. Then—
BOOM.
A blinding blur of angel slammed into him from directly above.
Feathers exploded in every direction—white and red—a full-blown aerial disaster. Hawks shouted something totally undignified as he was yanked out of the sky by pure momentum, spinning end-over-end with a celestial being tangled around him.
They crashed into a grassy clearing with enough force to rattle the earth.
WHAM.
Silence.
The wind rustled.
A feather floated gently down and landed on Hawks’s face.
He lay there, dazed, flat on his back, his arms sprawled, a broken yakitori skewer still gripped in one hand. And atop him… was her.
Glowing faintly. Wings twitching. Gown flowing like something from a dream. Eyes closed.
Hawks stared up at the sky, utterly still.
Keigo Takami:“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Hawks didn’t move.
Couldn’t move.
Because there was literally an angel sprawled across him, face-first into his chest, completely limp. Her wings twitched faintly in the breeze—massive, pristine things, soft as storm clouds, glowing faintly with some kind of divine shimmer.
Her dress—elegant, flowing white and blue with gold trim—was tangled in his scarf. There were leaves in her hair. A small puff of light still crackled where she'd entered the atmosphere like a meteor built by fashion designers.
She didn’t budge. She didn’t open her eyes. Just breathed softly, out cold.
Hawks lay there, blinking up at the clouds.
Keigo Takami: “…Okay,” he muttered. “I’ve been hit with a lot of things. Grenades. Ceiling tiles. A flaming vending machine once.”
He tilted his head just enough to glance at the unconscious celestial lump on his chest.
Keigo Takami: “But this is new.”
He gently shifted, trying not to jostle her—though it was like trying to roll out from under a very dramatic swan.
Keigo Takami: “…Hey,” he said, softly, tapping her shoulder with the back of a feather. “You alive? Or, uh… holy?”
No response.
Only the peaceful rise and fall of her breathing.
He groaned and flopped his head back onto the grass.
Keigo Takami: “Yup. This is how I die. Buried under twenty pounds of glowing mystery-woman. Death by fashionably violent sky angel.”
And then, after a long, quiet pause:
Keigo Takami: “…Still not worse than that vending machine.”