At about 6:00 on a sleepy Sunday morning, a plane is crashing in a forest. No one is there to hear it.

Except, of course, the pilot.

"Fox? Fox, can you read me? I'm going down-- about 300 miles northeast of the Hangar." No response. She'd had none since she began radioing an hour ago about engine trouble. 

"I know I messed up." She speaks into the empty static. "First job by myself and I let you down." She clicks off her receiver and sets it back in place. Her hands are shaking.

At 7:27, a college student goes for a walk. Ashley doesn't expect to find much, just to follow a small creek that winds its way not far from camp. 

"Goddammit! God, that hurts!" 

She startles at the sound of shouting up ahead. Moving around a large oak, she can see someone on the bank up ahead. 

The stranger sets down a black box, about the size of a soccer ball. She reaches around behind her, trying to find a particular spot on her gigantic white wings. Her jaw tenses as she stretches out her right wing a bit more.

"Shit." Giving up, the pilot sits heavily at the water's edge. She doesn't care at all as her combat boots are completely soaked. The downed pilot has more pressing issues on her mind.

"Hello?" Ashley hesitantly walks into view. "Are you alright?"

The pilot scrambles to her feet, stepping back warily as she looks Ashley up and down. There's not much to see. A sweatshirt and baggy jeans hide most of her features. Two short ponytails are her most distinct attributes, barely more than frizzy black poufs. Metallic glasses hide her storm-blue eyes, soft with concern. 

"I'm fine. Just fine." The winged woman's voice is harsh, but she decides Ashley isn't a threat. She relaxes out of her defensive stance, putting a hand on her hip. The pilot is almost miniature, with features that could be doll-like if she wanted. Her delicate hand barely fits across her waist, but her knuckles are bruised red. Large round eyes the color of soft amber shine with fierce intelligence, rather than glassy emptiness. Her hair is let down across her shoulders with the intention of being messy. But, somehow, the dark waves frame the sharp features of her face perfectly.

Don’t stare, that’s rude! You’ve seen seraphs before. But, those wings, that pattern, which pattern is that again? Focus! She needs first aid, not scientific scrutiny.

The student mentally shakes herself before extending a hand: "I can help. I have some medical training."

"Alright Ponytails." The pilot jerks her thumb back at her right wing. "Fix this." Her hostility breaks as she meets Ashley's narrowed eyes. She looks away and adds quietly: "I think something's broken."

Okay. Most of her experience is with horses, but…  

Carefully, Ashley checks the extent of damage to the wing. It’s not the stranger’s only wound-- small jagged cuts run down her arms; smoke streaks blacken her clothes. The pilot fidgets as Ashley's hand passes bruises hidden under sheafs of white.

“I don’t feel any separate fragments-- it could just be a fissure, or maybe a partial fracture.” The veterinary student sits back and thinks for a moment. The wing is such an awkward shape, difficult to wrap properly. Her first aid kit isn’t built for this-- she’ll have to get creative. “Do you… have a utility knife?”

Her patient makes an incredulous face, as if that’s a stupid question. Reaching into one of the many pockets of her cargo pants, she takes out a small red handle and unfolds the blade within.

“Okay,” Ashley scans the surrounding foliage, fallen branches scattered about. She picks up one that seems suitable-- straight enough, dry, and not too heavy. “I’m going to get some gauze from my camp; you strip the bark off of this.”

“Why the hell should I do that?” The pilot crosses her arms, unconvinced of the usefulness of woodcarving.

“We’re going to make a splint.” The vet patiently explains, “Please listen to me. If the bone doesn’t heal right… you may never fly again.”

That quiets her irritable acquaintance, who picks up the branch. The pilot mutters short, sharp words from the moment Ponytails leaves to when she returns, about ten minutes later. “This good enough?”

Ashley quickly analizes, “Yes, that should be good enough for the circumstance.” She wants to ask questions, but her patient is clearly annoyed and in pain. “Fold in your wing, please.” Unrolling some of the gauze, she begins the several layers of wrapping that will be needed to hold the wing in place. About halfway through her careful work, she is given a cursory glance that leads to a question.

“Why do you have feathers in your pocket?” It’s almost accusatory. 

“I just-” Ponytails stutters in embarrassment, “found some primaries on my walk. Have you ever seen flight feathers under a microscope? The microstructures are fascinating!” Her voice builds with confidence as she talks about her hobby, but receiving skeptical disinterest causes her to quiet. 

After doing all she can, she stands-- rousing the other from staring sullenly into the distance.

“Okay, so, move your wing as little as possible, and see a professional when you can.” She imitates the confident, reassuring tone of a practicing veterinarian. Then the awkward student returns as she says, “Goodbye, I guess?” and begins to step away.

“Wait.” The other calls her back begrudgingly, “I doubt you could ever use one of my favors.” She reaches under her shirt and winces, “So, anyways, here.” She holds out a down feather.

Ashley’s eyes widen and she takes it gently. Are more words supposed to be said? Neither are sure and they part in silence.